There is no fate but what we make
by CommanderTrashPanda
Summary: What if ALIE wasn't the only one working to "make humanity better"? What if there were others? What if everything Clarke and Lexa thought they knew - about each other, about their world - was only part of the story? This fic draws on many elements from S3, but weaves them into new, different take on the story of the AI, Lexa, Clarke, Polis, etc. It will be long.
1. Chapter 1

Days had turned into weeks since Clarke had walked away from Camp Jaha, the sounds of her people's voices replaced with the calls of birds as they flitted from tree to tree, the steady crunch of leaves beneath her feet like waves on the shore - or at least, how she imagined the ocean to sound, never having actually experienced it except from miles above in the infinite silence of space. She pictured the water slowly wearing rocks into pebbles into sand and silt. She could feel it in her mouth like she'd swallowed a handful of dirt and no matter how many times she tried to rinse it out, she could still feel the squeaky crunch of grit - the blood and bones of countless enemies and innocents - between her teeth, coating her fingers, dried and crusted beneath her nails.

Her people or theirs. The Sky People or The Grounders or The Mountain Men. How many times would she have to make the call that could and would change everything? And every time she thought of The Commander, a little shock of electricity, followed by a sickening wave of guilt travelled through her body.

When she had confronted The Commander in her tent, backing her into a table while calling her a liar for saying she didn't feel for those she had lost, Clarke thought she had been right. She knew she had been right in that moment, as she watched The Commander's facade crumble, eyes wide and watery as she confessed to Clarke that she cared about her, watching as Lexa emerged, vulnerable and torn. And later, when Clarke had felt the soft, tentative press of Lexa's lips against hers, growing more bold as Clarke surprised herself by kissing Lexa back, she felt hopeful that even though she had meant it when she had said "not yet," she didn't want that to mean forever.

It didn't matter now. None of it mattered now. Clarke wondered if those she left behind at Camp Jaha even understood her leaving. They probably thought she needed to be alone to come to some sort of peace with her actions at Mount Weather. At the dropship. At any number of other crossroads she had faced since stepping foot on this prison.

But peace was not what she sought in the wilderness. Peace was what she would have found in staying. Slowly, with the help of her people, the ache and sickness in her chest would have melted among their support, their laughter, and their love for her. She didn't want the self-loathing to fade and be pushed aside as more pleasant memories were formed. She needed to feel all of her rage and hatred and shame as it washed over her, constant as the ebb and flow of the tide every waking moment and as it crashed her from fitful sleep.

Worse was when consciousness came slowly, the dreams instead of nightmares swirling like mist as she felt the pressing warmth of Lexa's body evaporating into the cold hard earth beneath her. She hated herself in different ways on those mornings. But despite the betrayal at the mountain and sickness she felt every time she thought of The Commander, Clarke knew Lexa had been right: love is weakness and she must inoculate herself against her own feelings if she was ever going to survive and lead in this new world.

Who we are and who we must be aren't always aligned and so she had to stop caring. She needed to hollow out her insides of all wants and desires so that she could fill herself with the needs of her people and not ever have to dwell on what it meant to be her ever again. This was the lesson The Commander had taught her. As much as Clarke had felt like the betrayal was personal, her heart ripping as she watched braids and blood and warpaint retreat into the forest that night, she knew deep down that The Commander had left because she wasn't swayed anymore by feelings. She was strong. Clarke was weak and she hated Lexa for being the leader she wasn't yet capable of being.

As Clarke moved through the woods, her feet and hands becoming more callused by the constant wearing of her boots and branches and rocks and steel against her skin, she felt the same slow layers hardening from within. She forced herself to think of the blood, spilling like a breaking dam at the flip of a switch. If she was going to survive herself, she would have to be able to look back at the death and destruction she left in her wake without remorse or shock. The shell she was creating would be impenetrable. Eventually.

Even as she caught and killed game for sustenance, she made herself look openly at the last spasms of life and viscera within, swallowing down the bile and revulsion, determined to form more layers around her soul.

The dead are gone.

The living are hungry.

And Clarke was fucking starving.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Clarke noticed as she walked around the large fallen tree in her path was an ear. Its unusual and distinctive shape, perfectly formed, delicate, slightly pink and bright against the earthy backdrop of the forest floor. As she drew closer, she saw the ear belonged to a body, crumpled on its side, covered only by thin clothing, caked in dirt and blood. Her eyes moved from the ear down to the neck and followed the rope to its end, tied to a broken branch a few feet away.

Not another body. Not more death. Everything told her to run. But she ignored her desires, unsheathed her knife, and moved forward.

It was a girl, probably around her age. She couldn't tell exactly how old or any other details as her face was badly beaten and bruised, one eye completely swollen shut. Her wrists were bound in front of her, raw and bloody, and Clarke wasn't sure, but she thought that the holes and wetness on her clothing were from being stabbed, maybe even shot? This didn't make sense. Only her people used guns. And the Grounders didn't hang people. But she didn't recognize her and The Mountain Men were all dead. Her clothes looked almost modern, not the scavenged and repurposed styles of Grounders. But if she was shot, then it could only have been her people, right?

Her hair was the most distinctive thing Clarke noticed - silvery grey, shaved close on the sides and longer, messier on top. It was strikingly pure against the lurid scene. There was a strange shadow along one side, above the ear that had drawn Clarke from behind the fallen tree. As she crouched down to get a better look, she saw that it was some sort of a code tattooed onto the girl's scalp. Steeling her nerves, she rolled the girl onto her back to see if there was anything else she could find out.

She was still warm. This had happened recently. Clarke instinctively felt for the pistol at her thigh, making sure it was ready should whoever caused this decide to return. As she reached out to feel for a pulse, she suddenly felt an iron grip around her wrist as the eye that was not swollen shut shot open and fixed to hers. Like her hair, the girl's iris was grey, but darker. It was like looking into storm clouds converging in the sky.

They stared at each other for a long moment before the girl's hands, still bound, loosened their grip on Clarke's wrist.

"Can you understand me?"

Clarke's own voice surprised her. She couldn't remember the last time she had used it, had needed it. She wasn't sure she had even spoken aloud until she received a millimeter nod in response.

"Are they going to come back for you?"

The girl gave the slightest shake of her head.

"Are you going to try and hurt me?"

Another small shake.

"I'm going to untie you now. But I will kill you if you try anything."

The girl responded with a slow single-eye blink of understanding.

Clarke loosened the noose around the girl's neck, wincing as she felt the rope unsticking from being embedded into flesh. The girl was utterly still, despite what pain Clarke knew she must be feeling. The eye trained on her was unmoving, boring into her. Clarke's skin prickled as her mind allowed a flashback to what it felt like to be stared at like that from another set of all-seeing eyes.

She returned to her task, using her knife to slice through the ropes around the girl's wrists, the tender skin exposed, blistered and raw from struggle.

The girl rolled over onto her knees, bracing herself on her palms and hissing as the skin of her wrists flexed and she drew in breath against her crushed throat. Clarke unhooked her canteen and held it out, the girl took it and drank a few small sips before handing it back, never taking her eye off Clarke. Clarke could have sworn she saw the barest hint of a smile accompanying the tiny nod of thanks before fading back to impassiveness. Another reminder of Lexa. The Commander would be her own layer in Clarke's slowly forming armor.

"Can you walk? I don't want to make camp here in case your friends come back for you."

In answer, the girl slowly rose to her feet, wincing a little as she attempted to stand, unseen injuries keeping her posture stooped, one arm hanging limply at her side. Clarke guessed that they were about the same height, though slightly different builds. The way her clothes hung, she was more muscular, athletic, strong, despite being beaten and bloodied. Clarke hoped she could trust that she wouldn't be attacked. If she somehow found herself without her knife or gun, she was pretty sure she would lose. And who's to say this girl couldn't strip her of her weapons should she decide to anyway? But she also didn't feel in any sort of danger. Despite the weirdness of the situation, Clarke felt oddly at ease in this stranger's presence.

They began to walk, the girl following silently to wherever Clarke was leading.


	3. Chapter 3

Clarke and the girl watched each other across the small fire, each leaning against a tree, silently chewing the dried meat and berries Clarke had pulled from her satchel. The girl had made no effort to speak - Clarke didn't expect she'd be able to for at least a week given the injuries around her neck - but Clarke couldn't shake this strange sensation that she was somehow both totally alone and completely absorbed by the girl in front of her.

"What should I call you?" Clarke asked.

The girl regarded her for a moment, chewing slowly, before holding up her hand and folded all but a single finger down. She then raised her other three her fingers up, keeping her thumb against her palm.

One. Four. Fourteen.

"Your name is 'Fourteen'?"

A small nod.

"Are you from here?"

14 looked around her, into the dark forest beyond the glow of the campfire as if she would be able to recognize her surroundings in the pitch black. She turned back to Clarke and shook her head.

"Are there others like you?"

She nodded, but Clarke got the impression that they were also nowhere nearby. Through the flicker and dancing shadows of the fire, Clarke watched 14 watching her, sure she could see the fear, sadness, and the despair that only comes with utter betrayal and heartbreak. Maybe they had this in common. Then again, maybe she was just projecting. Maybe this girl had already found the practiced numbness and calm that Clarke so desperately sought to build within herself.

Clarke stretched out onto the ground, lying on her side, facing the fire, facing the girl.

Another slow-blink and slight tilt of 14's head that seemed to say "Rest now. I will watch over you." Again, Clarke wasn't sure if she was imagining thoughts behind that grey eye, but what other choice did she have but to trust this stranger while she slept? 

Clarke awoke with a sudden jolt, images of burned bodies and their screams fading into her subconscious as the living world around her came into focus. The fire was down to low embers in the watery light of dawn. And there was no one at the tree in front of her.

She sat up, hand flying to her side. Her gun was still there, but her knife and canteen were missing. Cursing to herself, she started to get to her feet. She would need to stop by the trading post that had been taking in her larger game kills, preserving the meat, and giving a portion back to Clarke as payment. This time, she would have to forgo some of her food to replace her fucking knife and fucking canteen.

Clarke was surprised by the anger she felt, and also by the hurt. She didn't know this girl. Of course as soon as Clarke had fallen asleep she would take a weapon and disappear into the forest. It's what Clarke had done.

The soft crunch of approaching footsteps sent Clarke's heart racing as she drew her gun in one fluid motion and had it aimed directly at 14's chest when she half-limped, half-walked into camp. In one hand was Clarke's knife, and in the other, a rabbit, cleaned and dressed, along with a few sprigs of some greenery Clarke couldn't make out at this distance. The canteen swung heavily at her side as she came to a stop.

Clarke lowered her gun as 14 continued her slow approach towards the dying fire. She didn't allow herself to feel foolish. Trusting a stranger was foolish, but drawing her gun was surviving and at this moment, there wasn't more to her life than that.

Clarke moved towards the fire and knelt down across from 14 as the girl began to thread the meat onto the leafy sticks. Without looking up from her task, 14 handed the knife back to Clarke, the blade gleaming and clean, not a drop of blood on it, nor on any of the rabbit, and Clarke scolded herself for the brief flush of relief she felt at not having to see blood first thing in the morning. She busied herself building up the fire again so it was ready when 14 handed her what she immediately smelled as rosemary sprigs speared through the pieces of meat.

They ate in companionable silence - not that there was much other choice, Clarke thought, as her eyes strayed across the deep bruise line wrapping around 14's neck. She was actually surprised at how much better the damage around 14's face was looking, and her movements didn't seem quite so stiff, especially considering the state she'd been in only the day before. Maybe Clarke had overestimated the severity of her wounds.

After stomping out the fire, they began their slow march again. While 14's condition had certainly improved over the near-dead state Clarke had found her in, she was still limping and needed to take frequent breaks to catch her breath. When they stopped, Clarke would hand 14 her canteen and watch her, wondering just what wounds her dark clothing was keeping covered and how much longer 14 would be able to keep going without medical attention. 

Clarke didn't have a destination in mind as she'd just been travelling the same few square miles these past weeks, hunting, sleeping, stopping by the Grounder trading post, and returning to her solitude where she was free to let her mind replay an endless loop of the horrors and failures of her past.

By late afternoon, the temperature had turned noticeably chilly, the air electric, and the sky darkened with the promise of an approaching storm.

They had hiked up to a small elevation from which they could look out across the lower ground below, trees and open sky more visible than in the depths of the forest. They stopped when they came across a mound of earth with a large cutaway at it's base, tree roots and ivy overgrowing from the space above down to the ground below. In the waning light and shadow of the vegetation, it was impossible to see how far back the recess went. They looked at each other and 14 gave a small shrug before motioning that she would investigate. It was the shrug that Clarke found… amusing? Almost like 14 was trying to be friendly. Or, again, maybe Clarke was seeing what she wanted to see. Maybe she was lonely. Maybe she wasn't cut out for this solitude thing.

At the largest gap in the overhanging roots, 14 paused and turned back to Clarke, who unfastened her knife and held it out. With the knife in her hand and a quick nod, 14 disappeared into the overgrowth. Clarke looked behind her at the rapidly darkening sky, feeling the roll of thunder vibrating through the ground and into her chest. She hoped this was not the den of some bear or god forbid another gorilla. She really didn't want to spend the night shivering in the impending downpour. She wasn't even sure if 14 would survive it.

Clarke watched flashes of lightning in the distance for another long moment before turning back towards the crevice where there was now a hand extending outwards from the shadows. Taking a deep breath, she took the hand in hers, briefly noting the surprising warmth and slight roughness of 14's palm as she stepped forward and was swallowed by the darkness just as the first raindrops began to fall. 

The ground sloped downward as Clarke followed the gentle pull of 14's hand in hers, soft earth giving way to hard concrete. Her eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the darkness when she felt 14 stop in front of her. Clarke could make out that they were on some kind of landing, a solid structure in front of them, but the only light left in the inky shadows were the tiny pinpricks through the foliage behind them.

Still holding hands, Clarke was startled when she felt 14's other hand press at the gun strapped to her thigh. Instantly, her hand flew to cover 14's, just as 14 gave the hand she was still holding a reassuring squeeze. Clarke wished she could see her face, to read what she might be thinking, but in the space of a heartbeat, she had to decide whether to trust this girl. Again.

Slowly, Clarke moved her hand away and heard the faint click as 14 released the gun from it's holster and her hand from Clarke's.

Clarke jumped when she heard the first loud bang - not of gunfire, but the butt of the gun being hit against some metal surface she couldn't see. Three more loud cracks, then she felt 14 reholster the gun before the sound of a lever being pulled and the whoosh of a seal being broken sent faint light spilling into the tunnel where they stood.

14's face was awash in a dim golden glow as she looked back at Clarke before turning and stepping into the light.


	4. Chapter 4

Using her hunting knife, Clarke cut a line up 14's shirt from waist to collarbone. She remembered the scalpel in her hand, helping her mom in surgery back on the Ark. Back when everyone was 'her people' and her choices were still her own.

She peeled back the flaps of fabric to reveal a topographical history of pain on the skin below. Her eyes watered and she looked up at 14's face, eyes still closed, the bruising already fading from deep blue to a sickly green around the edges.

The biggest cut was nearly closed and neither it nor the obviously newer ones showed signs of infection. Clarke allowed her fingertips to trace the constellations of some of the older scars and marveled at how smooth and faint they were.

"What should I call you?" 14's scratchy, raw voice broke the silence.

Clarke jumped. She had no idea how long 14 had been awake, but she looked alert as the fire burning behind Clarke reflected brightly against her monochromatic irises.

"Clarke." She watched 14 silently roll the taste of it around her mouth before continuing. "You look like you're healing well… remarkably well, actually."

Clarke paused, her eyebrows knitting together, debating whether to ask about this miraculous healing, about whoever had left her hanging from that tree, about the numerous scars and the tattoo and her strange hair and eye color. Though questions about 14 might lead to questions about Clarke...

"How long was I out?" 14 hadn't taken the bait. Clarke wasn't sure if she was relieved or annoyed.

"Since yesterday. I think. I'm not sure, actually. I slept a long time, too, and it's still pouring, Maybe it's been days." Clarke smiled. It felt weird. But good in this moment. They were warm. They were safe. She had slept dreamlessly.

She watched 14's face as she processed this information, watched as 14's eyes searched hers before roaming around the room, taking in the wood-burning stove, the shelf overflowing with well-worn books, the small galley and storage area, the unmade bed where Clarke had slept, and finally back to Clarke as she sat on the coffee table in front of the sofa where 14 lay stretched out, torso exposed.

Clarke felt heat rise to her cheeks when 14's eyes locked back on hers, watching as her hand rose to touch Clarke's still damp hair, eyebrows raised in question.

"There's a shower. With hot water. And clean clothes. And food. The people who were here before left a note. They've been gone for 2 years."

If 14's eyes were like a constant storm, then slow, small smile that spread across her dirt and blood covered face was a break in the clouds, sunlight spilling through the churning darkness. Clarke knew the feeling; she knew what it felt like to have hot tears roll over her cheeks as they mingled with the cascading water, bringing release amid the stifled sobs while she watched the filth and grime, weeks of solitude and survival, swirl down the drain.

In one lithe movement, 14 was on her feet and moving towards the door off of the galley, unfastening her pants as she went until she was only in her black sports bra and tight black shorts, revealing an entirely new universe of scars across her back and thighs before she closed the door behind her and the hiss of running water and steam filled the air.

Clarke's face was tilted upwards, watching the water droplets as they thrummed loudly on the skylight, the rain having continued it's downpour for another day into night. She leaned against one armrest as 14 faced her from the other, eating her dinner.

"Are you going to tell me why your injuries look like they've been healing for weeks instead of days?" Clarke asked, shifting her focus to 14.

14 raised her head, chewing slowly, grey eyes locked on blue. Clarke suddenly felt like she may have made a grave miscalculation. Getting thrown into these life or death situations had a tendency of creating an unearned sense of intimacy and trust.

Clarke was back in that tent, softly taking Lexa's lower lip between her own as she deepened their kiss, feeling Lexa's rough palm gently cradling her neck, her thumb brushing so lightly against the sensitive skin below her ear.

"Are you going to tell me why the leader of The Sky People isn't with her camp, but instead wandering the woods, seemingly unaware of the enormous bounty on her head?" 14 replied, casually.

Clarke's eyes went wide. Every nerve in her body was electrified, tensed, telling her to run. Twelve paces to the door, another forty until she's in the woods. Five to her bed. Could she make it to her gun hidden under the pillow before 14 realized what was happening? Would 14 even try to stop her? Could she shoot her? Could she kill her?

She needed more information first. She would be smart. Then she would run.

"I thought you said you and your people weren't from here," Clarke said, trying to stay composed.

"They're not. I'm not. You, your people, The Grounders, The Mountain Men. The gameboard is much bigger than all of them. Even Heda's coalition is only just a single move in a long line of turns. There are other players further away who are making their moves, too. I was just one of the pieces and I know of some of the others still in play," 14 answered. "But I'm not on the board anymore," she added pointedly.

Not for the first time, the gulf between what Clarke thought she knew and understood in this world and how small it was compared with the wider truth knocked the wind out of her. 14 didn't just know about her people, but of Lexa, the clan coalition, and probably even their failed alliance. How much else did she know about the shifting power struggles of this new world the Sky People had crashed into?

And for all that she had bled, cried, and ached since the dropship door first opened, 14 made it seem like it was nothing more than the chess pieces she and Wells had slid across checkered squares miles above, lifetimes ago. The brief respite from sickening despair she had felt since waking up was over as it uncoiled to writhe again in her belly.

"I'm sorry I don't have more answers to give you," 14 added, her face guileless as she looked into Clarke's eyes.

"What does this have to do with your injuries?" Clarke needed to stay focused.

14 broke their eye contact, turning back to the fire. "Humans are remarkably frail," she mused. "Just a single cut, if left to fester, could kill a healthy person within a few days, a body ravaged by fever and pain, growing weaker until it simply… expires. And even if you do manage to survive - if you're lucky - it can take weeks, sometimes months or years to recover. Before the bombs started to fall, my people were trying to find way to make soldiers, assassins, agents - the name would have been decided by whoever bought the tech - better at not dying. Better at surviving."

Because that's all there is anymore, Clarke thought, darkly.

"And you're one of these 'soldiers'?"

14's closed her eyes briefly, drawing in a slow, deep breath through her nose before continuing. "Just an iteration. Another generation of us to be used for experiments and data collection. The pursuit of perfecting the formula."

Perfecting. Clarke thought back to the array of immaculately healed scars, most so thin they looked like white lines painted by a brush made from a single hair onto the smooth, tawny skin covering 14's well-muscled body. She studied 14's face and was suddenly dumbstruck at just how, well, perfect it was. In the few days they had known each other, the swelling was already gone and the bruising so faint it was nearly invisible, revealing perfectly symmetrical, perfectly proportioned features. Clarke remembered noticing that even when her face was covered in dried blood and dirt and swollen beyond recognition, her teeth had been gleaming white and straight.

14 was perfect.

Except for the scars. Except for whatever still haunted her as it passed like a shadow over her face sometimes.

"What are they trying to perfect?" Clarke asked.

"I'm not sure. Telling us what they wanted to achieve from each experiment would contaminate the results."

"How many of you are there?" Clarke asked.

"I was the last one."

"The Fourteenth," Clarke murmured, watching as 14 gave a slight nod.

"How long do they study-" Clarke bit off her sentence, but 14 seemed unfazed by its implication.

"There are rumours that the group 2 generations before us were 11 when their data sets had been completed," 14 stated, shrugging slightly. "The oldest we heard about was a single subject who was terminated after 25 years."

"How many of your generation are left?"

"Four, including me. Though, if you mean 'my people', I'm honestly not sure. There were hundreds of scientists and their families all living there when the world ended. But we were usually kept away from anyone not directly involved with our development."

Clarke felt a mixture of terror and sadness and revulsion at the dispassionate way 14 was describing her existence. She was meat grown in a lab, disposed of when the experiments were complete. Data to be recorded and analyzed by scientists. The continuing evolution of a plan whose architects had been dead for decades.

The more she thought about the circumstances of 14's "death," it was obvious that this was not the sterile termination of a test subject.

"But why did they try to kill you? Why like that?"

Again, 14 looked away from Clarke and focused on the fire. Clarke's heart began to pound.

"Because I stopped following their orders," 14 replied flatly.

Despite the finality of the statement, Clarke remained quiet, hopeful that 14 would continue.

"All test subjects are paired with someone who would become part of the next generation of researchers. They were the ones who administered most of the tests, recorded the results, monitored us. We all lived together. Trained together. But we were never supposed to become-" 14 stopped mid-sentence. Clarke watched as she clenched her jaw, eyes closing for another long moment before opening again and fixing to hers. They were glassy and Clarke felt her own eyes stinging with tears.

"Every rule was explicit and if you didn't act alone, one of you must die by the other's hand," 14 explained. "Death is an effective deterrent, even for those of us who know our time is otherwise limited."

Clarke felt Finn's hot blood spilling out onto her hand as she slid the small knife between his ribs and could see the anguish in Lexa's eyes as she drove her sword through Gustus' chest. She heard Atom's last gurgling breaths and watched her father's body as it was ripped into the freezing vacuum of space.

14 paused again, swallowing hard. Her voice was quiet, low, as she continued, "But sometimes… even knowing the consequences, you can't stop- I wanted to be the one to die. She wouldn't do it. And I couldn't kill her."

"What happened to her?" Clarke's voice was barely above a whisper.

"I don't know. When neither of us would finish it, they took her away and brought me to that tree."

Clarke wondered what fate had delivered her two warriors, both broken by the same weakness.

She scooted towards 14's side of the couch, reaching out her hand and gently placing it on 14's forearm, realizing as she felt her trembling that this was probably the first time that 14 had allowed herself to think about - to grieve for - her loss. Everything happened so fast in this world. She moved her hand to 14's neck, her fingertips feeling the slight prickle of the close-cropped hair behind her ear. She pulled gently, drawing 14 in towards her, felt strong arms wrap around her, squeezing hard as 14's body shook with silent sobs.


	5. Chapter 5

Clarke paced from the galley to the front door and back again, sometimes detouring around the table or to her bed while 14 reclined on the sofa, reading one of the paperbacks she had pulled from the shelf.

It had been almost a week, the constant plinking of rain against the skylight having replaced the crisp sound of leaves under Clarke's feet as she'd gone from hiking for hours each a day to keep her body alive - for food, for warmth - to walking laps around the bunker trying to maintain her sanity. She hadn't realized how… feral… she had allowed herself - needed herself - to become during the time she'd spent in the forest. She felt like a caged animal as she stopped at the front door, debating whether to run out into the freezing, unending deluge.

"If you're looking for adventure, there are plenty of books to choose from," 14 quipped without looking up from her pages, a sly smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Clarke glared at her.

"How can you stand being trapped in here?"

"I'm used to it," replied 14, eyes still scanning the book in her hands.

Clarke imagined 14 sitting alone in a room, waiting for the next assignment. The next round of tests. In her mind, it was white and sterile, like the one she'd been kept in when she was first brought to Mount Weather. She'd escaped then, too.

"Well I'm not. I feel like can't breathe in here," Clarke said, exhaling heavily.

"It's not safe out there," 14 said, finally looking up from her book. "For you," she added.

"I can take care of myself," Clarke shot back, bristling at the implication she hadn't been surviving for weeks on her own, long before finding 14's body in the woods. She turned back to the door.

"If I wanted it, you would be dead before the first drop of rain could touch your head." 14 said, folding down a page of her book and putting it on the coffee table before looking back up at Clarke.

Clarke's hand froze on the door's lever as a burst of adrenaline radiated from her core to her extremities. The electric feeling immediately replaced with the cold certainty that 14 was not bluffing.

"But I'm not going to stop you. I will say that you are safe. Here. Out there…" 14 waved her hand towards the world beyond the door.

"The bounty, you mean?" Clarke asked. Maybe she would finally get her answers.

"Yes. And those who might just want you for themselves. The power of Wanheda is an alluring proposition."

Clarke opened her mouth slightly before closing it again as 14 continued.

"You are a hero, a legend, among The Grounders. Did you know that? The Mountain Men have been taking their people for longer than any of them can remember. Their greatest enemy. And you - you, The Sky Commander - wiped them out in a single night. You, who had burned an army of the fiercest warriors only weeks before, also felled their greatest foe, leaving no survivors. You are no longer The Sky Commander, Clarke. You are Wanheda: The Commander of Death," 14 said.

Clarke felt sick. She didn't even care how 14 knew all of these details. She just wanted her to stop talking so she could stop reliving the feeling of Bellamy's hand on hers after she decided to end them all. He had been trying to give her strength, to show her that she has support, that she was not alone. But it had been her decision. It always was.

14's voice pulled Clarke back to the present.

"The Grounders believe that to kill a warrior is to take their power. Is there anything more powerful to command than Death?" 14 seemed lost in her own thoughts for a moment. "Azgeda's Queen has put a bounty on your head, but I would guess she isn't the only one who would like The Power of Wanheda in their veins. The Commander-" 14 stopped abruptly seeing the dark mask fall over Clarke's features.

The knot in Clarke's stomach morphed into the clearest and purest rage at the mention of Lexa. The fortress she had been building around her feelings cracked open in an instant and she wondered if The Commander, if Lexa , would always be the skeleton key to her most primal emotions.

"You hate her." It wasn't a question.

"She left us to die at Mount Weather. We had a treaty, an alliance, and she betrayed us. What I did after that was what I had to do to save my people." Clarke had rehearsed this narrative in her head in the many hours she'd spent walking through the trees. "We trusted her. I trusted her. I thought that our people could live in peace together and she deserted us. So, yes. I hate her." Clarke tried to keep her voice steady. She needed to appear - to feel - like she was still strong.

"Do you want to kill her?" 14 asked.

"Yes." Clarke didn't hesitate.

Jus drein jus daun. Blood must have blood.

She had thought of killing The Commander dozens of times, and always after one of the dreams were where Lexa had come to her, unbidden, uninvited. And when she woke, caught in the space between worlds, she could still feel the damp heat on her fingers, her lips; she could taste Lexa's own need for her on her tongue. Before the mirage on her fingertips could evaporate, she would force herself to imagine it was Lexa's blood instead. In those moments she promised to avenge the innocent lives she'd had no other recourse but to extinguish. She promised to avenge her own lost innocence.

"You might get your chance," 14 said. "After abandoning you to certain death and having Wanheda rise from the ashes of their greatest enemy, I'm sure even The Commander is trying to find you."

14 studied her for a moment, before she seemed to decide something.

"And you will be ready when she does."

In one graceful move, 14 was off the sofa and pushing it back against the bed alcove. She then slid the coffee table to the wall so the entire main room was open. 14 looked around, satisfied with her makeshift ludus and walked towards Clarke.

"Death will not come for either of you unseen," 14 said, as she continued moving forward. "It will not be an arrow loosed from the trees or a bullet fired from afar. She will be no further from you than your outstretched arm," 14 finished, her face now only inches from Clarke's.

Clarke felt a chill shudder through her body and was sure 14 could feel the air tremble, they were so close. Neither moved, their eyes locked; a cloudless sky reflected against an unending storm, and Clark's pounding heart like thunder in her ears. She could feel the soft puff of breath as 14's voice lowered to just above a whisper when she spoke again.

"There is no glory, no power in killing Wanheda if you cannot see the light leave her eyes."


	6. Chapter 6

Clarke flexed her fingers, shifting her weight slightly to her rear foot, her focus trained on 14's core. Eyes are deceptive. Limbs are aftershocks. Watch the body if you want to know where the next strike is coming from.

14 rocked from side to side before exploding forward as Clarke pivoted on her lead leg, moving her head out from the path of 14's fist and timing a well-placed kick to the back of 14's thigh. 14 used the momentum from Clarke's kick to spin around, raising her elbow behind her just as Clarke rose onto the ball of her foot, driving a knee towards 14 as she continued her turn.

Clarke felt a heavy crack against her face, her vision exploding into stars, as her knee drove deeply into 14's abdomen. Clarke stood over 14, splayed on her back, the knife that had been in her hand now well out of reach.

Her triumphant smile fell immediately as 14's face swam back into focus, bringing with it pain and the wet, hot feeling of blood as it cascaded from her nose over her mouth and chin. The physical sensation was secondary as she took in 14's expression: jaw clenched and nostrils flared as her throat worked around a visible swallow, every muscle in her body tensed and trembling. 14 stared back at her with a predatory ferocity Clarke had never seen before. She froze, instinct overwhelming her conscious mind as her heart raced and her breath caught in her lungs.

Clarke blinked, her own eyes starting to water from the pain and when she opened them again, everything she thought she had seen play across 14's face was gone and she looked normal again, the usual calm restored to her delicate features. 14 gave Clarke a short nod of approval as she rose to her feet and walked to the galley, returning with a clean rag and a bowl.

"For the blood. If you swallow too much of it, you'll feel sick." 14's uncanny ability to answer questions before they had passed Clarke's lips used to make her uncomfortable. Now, it was just part of their rapport, though Clarke was often frustrated as she was still held outside 14's guarded demeanor unless granted access. Except for whatever she had just witnessed. That glimpse, she was sure, had been an unintentional and uncontrolled peek behind the veil. Fierce, frenzied, and absolutely terrifying.

While Clarke put the cloth to her nose (and spit a mouthful of blood into the bowl), 14 moved the furniture back to their usual places and steered Clarke towards the couch. They sat as they always did, each leaned against an armrest facing each other, breathing heavily, sweat still glistening on their skin.

Clarke pinched the bridge of her nose and tilted her head back, trying to not think about the metallic taste of blood trickling down the back of her throat. She almost choked, however, when she saw the skylight.

14's eyes followed hers and before Clarke could think about what she was doing she was sprinting across the room. She yanked the door open and ran up the shadowed path towards the trees, stopping just at the edge of the darkness, 14 at her side.

The forest was completely quiet, a thin blanket of white covering the ground. Clarke was speechless, her eyes wide and full of wonder. A small bubble of laughter passed her lips. Snow . The weeks of monotonous, thundering rain had finally given way to the glorious silence of snowfall and Clarke thought back to the moment the dropship door had opened and she had never seen anything as beautiful as Earth in front of her.

Clarke stepped from the overhang, gingerly putting her bare foot into the few inches of powdery white. She marvelled at just how cold it was, how soft it felt under the weight of her body as it crunched and compressed between her toes. She watched as fat snowflakes landed on her bare arms, dissolving instantly into water drops and how they stuck, unmelted, to her hair and eyelashes. Clarke turned back to see 14 still in shadow, looking at her with a gentleness she rarely displayed, a slight smile appearing as Clarke extended her hand to 14 and pulled her into the fading daylight.

Clarke and 14 lay on their backs, heads turned to face one another, watching the snowflakes fall and steam rise from their exposed skin into the growing darkness. The melting snow under her body felt good against her sore muscles and the bruises she had accumulated under 14's instruction over the past few weeks.

Clarke closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She could feel the air, cold, slightly humid, as it moved past her tongue, down her throat and into her lungs. It tasted so different from the air she had breathed on the Ark - recycled exhalations passed through the scrubbers, the oxygen levels kept at "livable" conditions. The air was so pure, so immense and unlimited down here she felt almost drunk as her ribs expanded.

"Have you ever seen snow before?" Clarke asked, marvelling at the clouds hovering in front of her face as her breath evaporated into the frigid air.

"Not like this." 14 replied, her voice low and soft, as if the magic of this moment would disappear if she spoke too loudly. Her grey eyes looked lighter, almost glowing, as they reflected the snow, filled with the same awe Clarke knew must be etched on her own face

They looked at each other, at the snow sticking to the trees behind them, for another long moment before a wave of cold sent a spasm through Clarke's body and she had to stop her teeth from chattering.

In an instant, 14 was on her feet and extended her arm to Clarke. She grasped 14's forearm, feeling 14's hand wrap around her own, and was pulled to her feet effortlessly.

"Let me see that," said 14, as she held out her hand to receive the rag she had given Clarke earlier, now soaked through with blood.

14 knelt in front of Clarke and she watched as 14 squeezed it in her fist, tiny rivulets of blood seeping out from between her fingers and falling into the snow, garish red against the fresh powder. Spreading the cloth on the ground, 14 scooped a handful of snow into the center before twisting the rag into a ball and handing it back. The bleeding from Clarke's nose had slowed to barely a drip, but the cold felt good on her face as they walked back through the tunnel, leaving her blood to melt through the snow and soak into the ground beneath.

Clarke closed her eyes as 14's fingertips gently pressed against the bridge of her nose, her cheeks, her jaw.

"It's not broken, but you'll probably have a black eye. Maybe two." 14 said as she finished her examination. "You did well. Next time, you'll see the counter attack coming. Or at least block it with less of your face." 14 allowed a small smile to tug at the corner of her mouth and slid back to her side of the couch. Clarke felt a flush of pride at both her improved technique in the few weeks of training she'd had and at being gifted with 14's rare praise.

Clarke ran her tongue over her upper lip. It felt swollen. Alien. Hot. Raw and alive.

"How does it work? How do you heal the way you do?" Clarke asked, thinking about her own recovery as she held a fresh, snow-filled cloth to her nose.

14 studied her for a long moment, slowly biting her bottom lip, taking an eternity to choose her words.

"The science a hundred years ago was focused on nanotechnology - how to merge humans and machines at the cellular level. Some were trying to find ways to enhance human consciousness. The ones who… designed me were trying to improve the body. They wanted to figure out how not just to heal, but how to heal efficiently, without draining resources of the host. The first part was an easy solve: stem cells."

"They can be turned into any cell that might need repair," Clarke offered.

"Exactly. What if a pint of blood held enough cells that when reverted back to stem cells, could heal a gunshot wound overnight? What if a broken leg was strong enough to run on in a day?" 14 paused again, letting Clarke imagine the possibilities. "The second part was more elusive. It takes a tremendous amount of energy at the molecular level to regenerate tissue. But what if you could-" again, 14 took a moment to select her words carefully, "- take blood from an external source and have those cells turn into the stem cells? Code embedded in our DNA can do that. It also makes an unappealing environment for infection."

Jus drein, jus daun. Blood must have blood, Clarke thought darkly, the irony of its inescapability not lost on her.

"Soldiers could heal themselves from those they had killed," Clarke mumbled, realization of what was sitting in front of her finally coming into focus. Still, if they had already figured out this technology, then what else were they trying to fix? What perfection still eluded their formulas?

"Does it make you… immortal?" Clarke felt silly even asking and could feel herself blushing when she saw 14's shoulders shake with silent laughter, the crinkles at the edges of her eyes smoothing as they became reflective and serious again.

"No. But it felt that way sometimes."

Clarke swallowed hard and nodded, trying not to imagine the tortures 14 and her siblings must have endured.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts as they watched the flames licking the inside of the fireplace.

"Do you ever wish things were different?" 14 asked, not taking her eyes from the flames.

Clarke thought back to a few months ago, when she was in solitary confinement on the Ark, certain she would be floated the moment she turned 18. Within days of landing on the ground, she'd had to end her first life, a small knife plunged into a boy's jugular as she became merciful death. Many, many more lives had followed. Maybe they would all still be alive if she hadn't stepped foot on this planet.

"Sometimes. Do you?"

"No." 14 didn't hesitate.

"Why?"

"Because how do I know it would be any better than this?" 14 asked, her eyes boring straight through the layers Clarke had constructed around her core as if they were nothing more than thin paper.

There were few people who could see through all the lies she had told herself to the truth in her bones. Wells had been one of them. And Lexa. Clarke felt dissected and exposed under 14's gaze as she knew 14 could see the how she longed for redemption, for reprieve. Everything was for her people. Every mass-murder and genocide and and trigger pull and blood soaked hand. And sometimes she did wish that she could trade it all in for a different fate. Maybe in another reality, the oxygen systems wouldn't have failed, her father wouldn't be dead, and she would have lived a simple life among her people, surrounded by stars, leaving the return to Earth for future generations.

As if she knew what Clarke was considering - because she always knew - 14 spoke again.

"You're so much more down here than you ever could have been up there."

But maybe, Clarke thought, the greater good would have been for them to have stayed in space, lifeless corpses adrift for eternity when the Ark suffocated them all.


	7. Chapter 7

Clarke swiped her palm across the fogged mirror. She recognized the blue eyes staring back at her, but it was like someone had taken a photograph and moved the camera just as the shutter closed so the girl in the mirror only resembled the memory she had of herself. She looked at the faded bruising beneath her eye, her sharp jawline as it met her neck, flowing down to her prominent collar bones and bare shoulders, shadows swirling around the definition in her upper arms.

She remembered that first night in this room as she'd wept silently under the running water, scrubbing away weeks in the wilderness, her fingertips tracing over the bony protrusions of her hips, the pronounced ridges of her ribs. If The Commander had come for her then, for Wanheda, she wouldn't have had the strength to deny her. Now, as she looked down, she was still lean, but the harsh lines of starvation had been softened by a new, thin sheathing of muscle that rippled and flexed as she lifted her arm to run her fingers through her hair.

14 had offered her a different path in her pursuit to become the lessons of The Commander - one not predicated on mental walls and self flagellation. It was 14's physicality that drove her, an existence based on what her body could do and what others could learn from it and Clarke was her apt pupil.

Clarke welcomed stretching in the mornings before training, feeling the satisfying burn in her sleepy muscles as her brain shut off whatever it had been reliving or planning since she'd opened her eyes and let her focus shift to the present. Under 14's instruction, she was emerging as contender in her own right, much like Octavia, she thought, as Octavia had studied under Indra, transforming into a Trikru warrior.

But she and 14 had also been trapped together in this strange purgatory, waiting for more habitable conditions outside, so how much of their relationship had been only due to circumstance? In another life, would 14 have been sent to kill her-another move in the game of unseen players? In another life - the weeks she was wandering alone - would she have welcomed beautiful death with open arms?

As Clarke dressed for bed, stepping into the tight shorts that served as underwear and pulling a loose-fitting tank top over her head, she let her fingers trace across her skin, hyper aware of how foreign the light, almost tickling sensation now felt. It had been months since she and Finn had fallen into bed together, two teenagers lost and afraid at the end of the world. It played in her mind in sharp contrast to the delicate, searching kiss in Lexa's tent, neither of them having the freedom to give themselves away in a moment of youthful passion. But the hunger and fire she felt in the press of their lips had been more potent than anything Clarke knew could exist between people, different than anything she had ever felt before. For anyone. And here she was now, waiting out the winter in a bunker with a stranger she'd found hanged in the woods, learning to fight so that should The Commander ever return, Clarke would be prepared to kill her.

She leaned against the bathroom doorway watching 14 stretched out on the couch, reading one of the many paperbacks previous travelers had left. Even she looked different than the day they crossed the threshold to this temporary life. The tattoos above her ear long since hidden by a shaggy mop of slate and silver hair, injuries healed into their normal faded white lines, and her eyes shone bright like river rocks under a flowing stream, the haunted shadows passing over them less frequently.

Clarke remembered the first time she had crawled onto the sofa with 14. She was standing next to the couch looking at the fire, too restless for sleep to come and too tired to be productive, the only sounds in the world were the pattering of rain above, the soft pops and hisses from the fireplace, and the wispy crackle of a page turning every few minutes. 14 had looked up from her book, her eyes offering a silent invitation which Clarke had answered by climbing in next to her, the length of their bodies pressed against each other. She remembered the warmth radiating from 14, the feeling of her body's natural rise and fall as she breathed, and the soft timbre of her voice as she began to read aloud. It was comforting and innocent in ways that had made Clarke's heart ache.

When Clarke got up from the couch to go to her bed, finally exhausted and soothed into drowsiness, 14 had made no move to follow; and on days where Clarke had woken in her bed with no memory of having left the sofa the night before, she would open her eyes and see unkempt hair poking up over the armrest, silhouetted against the dying embers in the fireplace behind them.

In those few minutes of the calm morning before her anguish and self loathing had stirred, she would sometimes compare the ways 14 and Lexa were similar; ways that she would allow herself to dwell on and ways that she would push from her mind before they could take root, only to pace at the periphery of her thoughts.

Clarke walked from the bathroom towards the fireplace, stopping in front of on the sofa, inches from 14's outstretched arm, her fingers dangling off the edge of the couch. She watched 14's eyes as they tracked line by line on the page, seemingly unaware of Clarke's presence (which Clarke knew wasn't true). She felt her heart begin to pound as a flash of adrenaline surged through her, so different than the steady drip during their sparring sessions. Steeling her nerves, Clarke shifted her weight slightly, so that the side of her thigh made contact with the tips of 14's fingers. Just barely.

"Mmm?" 14 hummed as she turned to face Clarke, her eyes taking in the warm skin now touching her fingertips, her gaze slowly following a path from Clarke's thigh until their eyes met.

Before she could let all of the doubt and terror of this moment drown her resolve, Clarke bent down to hook one of her fingers around 14's and with a gentle tug, 14 was on her feet.

They stared at each other for a long moment, half of their faces dancing in firelight, half in shadow. 14 was completely still, the only movement the slight rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathed, her eyes not moving a millimeter from Clarke's.

Clarke took a deep breath and closed the distance between them, pressing her lips to 14's. In the space of a heartbeat that felt like it spanned an eternity, Clarke was terrified she had made a huge mistake.

To say that she might have "misread" signals would mean there would have been signals at all. In the weeks that they had known each other, while completely absorbed in each other's bodies, they had never crossed into anything besides respectfully platonic; gaze or touch never lingered on bare skin.

And then, she felt 14's lips slide against hers, at first softly, then growing in intensity, suddenly feeling like sparks thrown into a powder keg. It was raw, and passionate and desperate for all of the pain they'd each been forced to endure and the solace they had found in each other. Clarke panted against 14's lips as she felt an arm wrap around her waist, a hand searching gently under her shirt, the searing heat of 14's palm as it made contact with the small of her back, pulling her in closer. It was like a dam had broken between them, not one that had been containing their feelings, but the one that had been keeping their magnetic pull apart.

The fire raging inside her was not what Clarke had expected given the chaste nature of their friendship, but now that the floodgates had opened it's what she needed now and from the way she felt 14's hands on her, the feeling was completely mutual.

Clarke lifted 14's shirt over her head and 14 pulled Clarke's tank top off as soon as she was free from her own, both standing in their tight shorts. They crashed back into each other's lips, gasping for breath between the velvet explorations of their tongues, feeling the heat of their bare skin as they pressed against each other, trying to get as close as possible and it never feeling like enough. Clarke shuddered as 14 took her lower lip between hers, and failed to hold back a tiny moan as she felt 14's tongue swipe along it's length, the pressure of suction and teeth as it slid out from 14's grip with a soft pop.

They paused for a moment, breathing heavily, feeling the air between them hot and electric. 14 leaned in this time, kissing her with such softness, such tenderness it was like she wanted Clarke to know that this, whatever this was, it didn't have to change anything between them. This was need. This was desire. This was human. This was trust built up over weeks of blood and sweat and sorrow and healing. This was after all of their mental walls had been scraped away, leaving them raw and vulnerable and safe. Clarke felt the lump in her throat travel like a warm orb through her core before it settled between her legs. She was nervous and excited and this was really going to happen and God why were they not in the bed yet?

Clarke pushed 14 down onto the mattress and shifted so that she was straddling her, their faces inches apart. She giggled softly, watching as 14 scrunched up her nose at the tickling blonde hair around her face. Her laughter turned into a quivering gasp when she felt 14 lightly glide the pads of her fingers up her spine before flipping her over in an instant. As 14 leaned down to kiss her, the tips of her hair now brushing Clarke's face, Clarke imagined 14's face as it usually was - so serious and reserved and calculating - but in this moment, she was smiling, grinning into Clarke's lips. If nothing else happened between them tonight - or ever - it would still have made the weeks of training worth it just for this break in the veil.

But more was happening as 14 moved her lips lower, to Clarke's neck, fingertips tracing across the expanse of Clarke's bare skin, now sensitive and flushed as she trembled under waves of anticipation flowing down to her core and out to her extremities. She watched 14 trail her attentions lower, every swirl of her tongue and pull of her lips adding to the tightness in Clarke's throat and pulsing between her thighs. She wondered if 14 had been secretly mapping every exposed nerve during their sparring sessions, knowing exactly how (nearly) every square inch of her body would respond to her touch.

When their lips met again, Clarke's aching was almost unbearable - she needed more, and as 14's fingers slid down the smooth pane of her stomach, over her underwear, and pressed where Clarke was most desperate, she couldn't stop the groaning whine as it ripped from her throat, her hips rising in search of more pressure from 14's hand.

"Can I have these?" 14 murmured, her lips brushing against Clarke's ear, sending new shivers down her body, as she gave the waistband of Clarke's underwear a light tug.

Clarke swallowed hard, and nodded. She watched the light from the fireplace shimmering against the thin sheen of sweat on 14's skin, her chest rising and falling in time with Clarke's own thudding heart as she knelt between Clarke's legs and removed her last piece off clothing.

She was the tide being pulled by the moon, the waves coming further and more forcefully to shore. Every stroke of 14's tongue, the gentle suction from her lips and deep curl of her her fingers brought Clarke closer to her release. But for the second time, 14 slowed, backing off, just enough, just keeping Clarke at the brink but never tumbling over, making the inevitable that much stronger. It was deliciously frustrating, almost unbearable, and as Clarke felt 14 begin to build up her intensity again, felt herself being edged closer and closer, she grabbed a fistful of 14's hair, anything to let her know Do. Not. Stop. With a moan against her that Clarke could feel, 14 obeyed.

Clarke careened over the edge into oblivion, tethered to this world by her grip on 14 as every pulse and wave exploded outward to the edges of space before pulling everything back inward again. Her abdominals flexed, core strained, mouth open in a silent scream, holding her breath until she saw pulses of light behind her eyelids.

14 coaxed the last tremors from her body, before settling herself against Clarke, the weight feeling comfortable, grounding. She could taste herself on 14's warm lips, her own feeling cold and numb.

"You ok?" 14 asked, resting her head on her elbow, her other hand pressed flat on Clarke's sternum, keeping her heart from beating out of her chest. "Did I accidentally kill Wanheda?"

The ringing in Clarke's ears was slowly fading, the underwater feeling dissipated as she felt herself coming back to the surface of the world.

"Maybe," Clarke answered, her voice raspy, a lazy smile playing at her lips as she was still trying to catch her breath, the stars behind her eyelids growing faint.

When Clarke opened her eyes again, the only thing in her view was the dying fire - no 14 on the couch - and a wave of panic coursed through her before Clarke remembered that she was naked. She turned over to see 14 asleep in the space next to her on the bed, her face peaceful as she breathed deeply, lost in dreamless oblivion. She watched her for several long minutes, the rise and fall of 14's bare chest in the low light, tiny shadows cast by some of her more prominent scars on her abdomen, and the mystery of what unseen places on her felt like, still hidden by the blanket gathered around her hips.

Clarke's mind flashed back to a few hours ago, again feeling the tightness in her throat and pulsing warmth in her center, now merely an echo of the intensity she had felt then. It almost didn't feel real. She reached her hand out, the pads of her fingers gently touching on the most recent scars on 14, the ones that had made her eyes water and her heart ache for a stranger so many weeks ago.

"Awake?" 14 mumbled, not opening her eyes.

Clarke leaned against her elbow, her left hand continuing to trace along 14's skin.

"Yes. Sorry," Clarke said, feeling her cheeks flush slightly as she remembered not being awake immediately after 14 had done whatever incredible thing she did that was still sending pulses through Clarke's body whenever she thought about it.

14 opened her eyes and turned her head towards Clarke, which Clarke took as an invitation to press their lips together again.

"Can I make it up to you?" Clarke whispered against 14's lips as her fingertips hesitated just underneath 14's waistband. She leaned in to kiss her again, letting her tongue run along 14's upper lip, feeling 14's hips tilt upward towards her hand in answer.

Clarke felt the breath slam from her chest, the familiar weightless, dropping sensation settle in her stomach as her fingers explored 14's warmth. She watched 14's face, watched her eyebrows knit together and relax, lips parted in silent prayer, as Clarke sought to find the rhythm and pressure she liked best. She was about to move her hand down lower, to feel 14 from the inside, but as if she knew what Clarke was thinking, 14's hand wrapped around Clarke's wrist, keeping her exactly where she needed. Clarke thought about how quiet and reserved she still was, even in pleasure, and wondered, sadly, if it had been born out of necessity, knowing the consequences if she were ever caught. She could taste the salt of dried sweat on 14's skin, watched her abdominals flex as her hips rolled along in rhythm with Clarke's hand; coming apart in one shaking breath, her head thrown back and pressed against the pillow, the muscles and veins in her neck straining as she allowed one gasping moan to pass her lips before collapsing, trembling, curling herself against Clarke's body.

Clarke lay with her head on 14's chest, soothed by the steady, wet thumping of 14's heart as she idly stroked her fingers along Clarke's back. The electrified, desperate passion they had felt earlier, now morphed into comforting reflection.

"What was her name?" Clarke asked, her fingertips still tracing constellations between 14's scars.

"November."

"Were there others named after months?"

"No. 'N' is the 14th letter of the alphabet. Old military code-names. Alpha, Bravo… I'm not sure if I was paired with her or she with me, but the names and numbers always corresponded."

"Did you love her?" 14 asked, after a long pause.

Clarke's heart thudded in her chest. She had been trying not to think about Lexa. But trying and doing aren't the same thing and more than once she had wondered if she hadn't stopped their kiss in her tent that day how far things might have gone.

"No," Clarke replied, honestly. "But… I think I wanted to."

Clarke felt 14 kiss the top of her head, deeply breathing in the scent of soap as it clung to her hair.

Clarke awoke without any memory of dreams, sunlight spilling through the skylight as 14 lay pressed against her back, her arm draped over Clarke, hand resting against her heart.

It was time for them to leave this place. The harsh, unforgiving cold having given way to the crisp dampness and new green of Spring. Where they would go, she wasn't sure. Arkadia? Polis? Somewhere else? She wasn't even sure if 14 would come with her, though she felt like their fates were bound together now.

She felt 14 squeeze her arm around her, consciousness having arrived.

"It looks like it's finally not going to rain every second of every day. Maybe we should think about heading out?" Clarke asked.

"Not yet." 14 murmured, nuzzling softly at the back of Clarke's neck. "Tomorrow."

14 gently pulled her arm from around Clarke's chest, a hand pressed on her hip, maneuvering Clarke onto her back as she slipped underneath the blanket in search of more ways to delay the inevitable.

Clarke listened to the sound of the woods as they walked, her chirping birds having returned to their perches and the leaves now mushy and decomposed from their long, rainy winter, making squicky sounds beneath their feet. They had decided to leave the bunker for a short walk, hoping the decision of where to travel next would be revealed during their explorations. It felt good to breathe in the fresh air, to feel sunlight on her face again, and not have to race inside once her ears and nose were red and raw. Clarke felt like she had found her peace, or at least had made peace with the horrors of her past in this moment as they walked.

Her adrenaline spiked before she had even processed the plinking sound, followed by a loud hissing. As she saw the brightly colored smoke obscuring everything around them, she was filled with dread, remembering the last time… the time The Mountain Men had come to claim her and her friends for their experiments. But they were all dead. It was her fault. But they were dead. She spun around, searching for 14 who was almost invisible not an arm's length away.

"No!" shouted 14, her eyes wide as she coughed and tried to reach for Clarke.

The world disappeared amid shouts and birds and fog and darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

Everything was muffled and disjointed, the throbbing in Clarke's head making it impossible to open her eyes. She struggled to move, finding her hands bound behind her back, her cheeks pulled hard by the gag tied around her mouth. She tried to focus on the voices she could hear against the deafening ringing in her ears.

"We need you to come back in. There was an anomaly in the test results."

She was authoritative, but didn't sound much more than a few years older, if at all.

"I understand this must be hard for you. Confusing," she continued, detached, clinical.

"I thought they killed you," 14 said, her voice low, disbelieving.

Clarke's eyelids fluttered as she tried to open them, the world around her spinning slightly. She was in a room with cement walls, nature having reclaimed portions of the structure as it crumbled in spots, creeping vegetation and sky visible around the edges.

"I didn't expect to see you again, either, if that makes you feel any better," the woman said to 14, her tone softer.

The gag in Clarke's mouth was making her nauseous, her tongue pressing uncomfortably against it. She could see 14, her hands tied in front of her, talking to a woman of similar height and slightly slimmer build.

November . Clarke was certain it was her. There was something different about her, in the same way, she thought, there was something extraordinary about 14. She was so reserved, professional. Clarke couldn't imagine being so cold around someone she had cared about. Her mind went to Lexa - knowing that if she saw her again, she was going to kill her. Nothing dispassionate about that.

14 turned her head, her eyes locking on Clarke's. They were dark, glassy, red around the edges, though completely void of any emotion. It was haunting and reminded Clarke of the first time she'd looked into 14's eye, the other being too swollen to open, as she'd felt 14's unbreakable grip around her arm, beaten and nearly dead in the forest all those weeks ago.

Following 14's gaze, the other woman began walking towards Clarke.

She was wearing a dark grey, fitted shirt, the sleeves pushed up above her elbows, a jagged scar visible on the underside of her forearm near her wrist. Her large, almond-shaped eyes set against an olive complexion were perfectly complimented by straight, jet-black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Where 14's irises were grey and stormy, hers were the darkest blue-black of a bottomless ocean with light flecks like cresting waves. She was mesmerizing. But if Clarke had learned one thing on the brutal ground it was that beauty and savagery kept close company.

November reached towards Clarke, brushing the hair back from Clarke's neck, her hand tilting Clarke's chin from side to side before bending down to examine Clarke's arms. As her fingers gripped the bottom hem of Clarke's shirt, 14 broke the silence.

"You won't find anything."

She arched an eyebrow back at 14, before returning her attention to Clarke.

"There are a lot of people still looking for you, Clarke. I'm not sure whether I should be surprised that after all this time, 14 would have been the one to find you."

Even if Clarke could speak, she didn't feel the need to correct her. She wasn't sure if November even knew what they'd done to 14 after they last saw each other.

As if on cue, 14 spoke, her voice louder than usual; trying to draw attention away from Clarke. For that, Clarke was grateful, as November's dark, hypnotic gaze made her feel uneasy.

"What did they do to you?" 14 asked, her voice searching. This November was not her November.

"What they had always planned to do. One through Thirteen were the control group. You were the variable. Like I said, there were some anomalies with the test results. So I've been asked to bring you back in. We may or may not need Clarke."

"Where are the other four? They didn't just send you." 14's head was raised, defiant against her captor and by her combative tone, it was obvious they both knew that it would take more than just one person to get her to go back to the research facility.

"They're dead. And their handlers." November said.

Finding that the rest of her "family" was dead didn't seem to phase 14. Clarke wondered if she had made peace with never seeing them again during their time together or if she was just repressing all of her emotions in order to survive this encounter with her past.

"What anomalies?" 14 asked, matching November's clinical tone.

November paused, her hand moving to the side of her head, listening to something as it came through her earpiece and responding quietly. She inhaled deeply through her nose and continued.

"You must have figured out that the goal wasn't you , right? The next phase was always to take the tech and make it available to the non-engineered. But it's not just the nanotech and hemoglobin and stem cells. If it were, then your siblings and their handlers would still be alive. You and I confirmed that the code was more sophisticated… more… discerning. It had learned how to feel ."

Clarke watched 14's throat work around a visible swallow, her constructed facade cracking around the edges.

"I loved you," 14 said, her voice unsteady.

"I know," November said, her own voice threatening to quake. She reached her hand out towards 14 and slowly tucked a piece of grey hair behind her ear. Clarke was struck by the tenderness of the gesture. After all the pain between them, November still cared about 14. She had always cared, on some level. Which made the betrayal worse, in Clarke's mind.

"So, everything before… when we...? Did you know the whole time?" 14 was on the verge of tears.

"I knew when they told me what they needed me to do," November answered. "They had to see how you would handle the consequences."

"I could have killed you," 14 said, her voice a mixture of worry and anger.

"And that was a risk they were willing to take. But with my blood in you and yours in me, the AI responded as they had hoped. Your choice was its choice."

November paused, gathering herself, the impassive mask falling back into place as she walked back towards Clarke.

"And now that you've confirmed Clarke is untainted, we can use her to continue the trials. We'll isolate the variable and program around it… and the new developments that we are trying to integrate as well."

Clarke wasn't sure if this was hard to follow because November was being deliberately obfuscatory or if whatever gas they had used to knock them out was still lingering in her system. She was confused about how the blood transfer stuff worked, but it seemed like whatever tech was in 14 had an emotional component and while Clarke wouldn't say she and 14 were together , she also had no idea what November assumed about their relationship.

"What makes you think she's anything more-" 14 spat, anger boiling over and forming a protective shell around her pain, but her words were cut short as November turned towards Clarke and punched her square in the gut.

With the wind completely knocked out of her, Clarke wasn't able to brace for the next series of blows as they connected with her face, sending her blood splattering to the floor. Her tongue tasted the raw, bitter copper of the cut on her lip.

Clarke glanced at 14, her gaze focused on November as she walked back across the room, lifting her hand to her mouth and licking Clarke's blood from her knuckles. Clarke felt her stomach surge and bile creep into her throat before she swallowed it back down, the burning nausea replacing the painful spasm in her diaphragm from November's suckerpunch.

"Do you remember how much you took from me?" November asked 14, her lower lip coated in a thin sheen of bright red, holding up her forearm. "Do you remember how you tried to heal this afterwards? Tried to save me? You're in me now. You -" Clarke couldn't hear the rest of what November said as she leaned down and whispered into 14's ear. Clarke watched shock play across 14's face, watched her eyes grow dark and feral as she clenched her jaw, nostrils flaring, November's bloody-knuckled hand pressed against her chest.

November took a few steps back, her hand once again going to her earpiece. She said something unintelligible before turning back to 14.

"This has to be your choice," she continued, resuming her official tone. "They'll be back in a few minutes."

"Do I have your word that you won't hurt her?" 14 asked, tilting her head towards Clarke.

Clarke wasn't sure, but it looked like something passed between them in the moments of silence before November gave a short nod.

"Okay," 14 said.

Clarke was furious. She was not going to get cut open or electrocuted or whatever they had planned for her. But 14 had taught her to watch for opportunity in an attack, so she was quiet for now, struggling against her bonds would only tire her. She had to be alert. Ready.

November unsheathed the small tactical knife at her hip and bent down to cut the rope. 14 stood, rubbing her wrists, head down, dejected. Clarke was so attuned to 14's body language at this point, she saw the imperceptible shift as 14 went completely still for half a heartbeat. She saw November realize the change, too, but it was too late. In a blur, 14's elbow was slamming into November's face as her hand whipped around, grabbing the knife at November's waist before throwing her to the ground, the knife now buried deep into the center of her chest.

Clarke watched in stunned silence as 14 knelt, cradling November in her arms, blood spurting from her mouth as she coughed. Her eyes were wide with shock, but as she looked up at 14, Clarke saw even her face change, softening into relief at her fate. November reached her hand up, tucking another errant strand of hair behind 14's ear.

"You need a haircut," November said, coughing slightly through a pained grimace.

14 self consciously ran a hand through her hair, her mouth turning into a half-hearted smile.

"There's something they want at Mt. Weather. I don't know what, but I know it involves one of the clans."

14 nodded, swallowing hard. Clarke's chest felt tight as she watched; even in death and grief and betrayal, November and 14 were still partners, still connected.

"I'm sorry," 14 choked, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes.

"I know. Me too."

November took another labored breath.

"It was real," November said, pausing, her next inhalation coming as a gurgling gasp. "We were real."

"I know," 14 whispered, smiling through her tears.

14 rested her palm around November's cheek as she leaned down to kiss her, sniffling as she gently lay her body on the ground.

Clarke felt hot tears streaming down her own cheeks as 14 rose to her feet slowly, wiping the bloody knife on her pant leg as she began walking towards her. They both paused, turning their heads at the sound of a loud engine in the distance. In an instant, 14 was in front of her, cutting the ropes around her wrists and pulling the gag from around her mouth.

"We need to get out of here! They're coming!" Clarke shouted, trying to pull her wrists apart to give tension to the rope as it snapped.

"Do you trust me?" 14's voice was low, serious, urgent.

Her eyes were locked on Clarke's, the familiar lightning storm drowning out the entire world around them.

Clarke didn't hesitate.

"Yes."

"I'm going to lead them away from here. They're going to think I killed you. Do not move. Do not let them know you are alive. Wait until we are gone and then run. Don't try to find me and don't tell anyone about any of this. Go to your people. Go to Polis. Go anywhere. I will find you."

Clarke nodded, still not understanding what 14 was planning, but she trusted her. She felt 14 kiss her, hard; it didn't feel so much like goodbye as a promise she would see her again.

"I'm sorry. I have to make them believe it to keep you safe," 14 said as she broke their kiss, her palm against Clarke's cheek, eyes burning into her.

As Clarke's eyebrows knitted in confusion, she saw the blade in 14's other hand out of the corner of her eye and felt a sharp, searing pain on the side of her neck, a small but deep cut, blood soaking into her shirt immediately.

14 moved her lips to Clarke's neck, pulling the life out of her, her arms like an iron embrace. Clarke's heart was racing, pumping more blood out of her, down 14's throat. She began to feel dizzy and just wanted to rest; she was grateful when 14 lowered her slowly to the floor.

"Stay awake, Clarke. Please. I need you to fight." Desperate, pleading.

Her vision was starting to blur, but she could see 14 pull the blade across her own palm, more blood dripping onto the floor and felt 14's hand wrap around the wound on her neck, holding tightly for a few moments.

"Close your eyes. Hold very still. Stay awake. When we're gone, you need to run."

Clarke closed her eyes and told her head to nod, but she had no idea if the signal had made it to her muscles; her body felt totally disconnected and like it was slowly sinking into the earth. She listened as loud footsteps entered the room, feeling someone nudge her with a boot.

"Looks like she killed the Arker, too."

"Check to make sure. If she's not dead, bring her. They'll want November back. You three, find 14. Tranqs only."

Clarke held her breath as fingers pressed against her neck, searching for a pulse. She heard a startled, strangled gasp and then felt hot liquid spray across her face. She cautioned opening a single eye and saw 14, the bloody knife in her hand as she dropped the guard's corpse next to her, his throat slit from ear to ear.

Clarke had never seen anything as terrifying as 14 in this moment. She was a wild, vicious, beautiful thing.

14 brought a finger up to her lips, her eyes frenzied and face splattered in blood, before she sprinted out of the room in the direction the other guards had taken.

Clarke tried to stay awake, tried to listen to the muffled shouts and commotion outside, but she was so tired. For the second time today, Clarke succumbed to the dark oblivion of unconsciousness.


	9. Chapter 9

The reflection of the sun off the water looked like millions of moving stars twinkling across the vast expanse of ocean, each so bright they made Clarke's eyes sting as she squinted, gazing out over the horizon. The small boat rocked gently, the pitch and roll of the waves constant and soothing as Clarke listened to the water lap softly against the hull.

She shifted her attention to the bench in front of her, Lexa and 14 sat next to each other, their faces expressionless, smooth as stone. 14 turned and whispered something in Lexa's ear, but without Lexa moving her lips, it was her voice was in Clarke's head.

"Clarke, please - "

But Clarke was done listening to the lessons of The Commander. She turned, looking back out over the water, silencing the voice inside her mind. She felt sick to her stomach, wondering if was the sea or the familiar nausea that the thought of Lexa stirred within her.

Clarke jerked awake, the rocking motion she had felt in her dream continuing into the real world. As her mind cleared, she realized the waves were actually the steady sway of the horse beneath her. The gag was back in her mouth, her head covered by a sack, the coarse weave letting in only enough light to see that it was daytime and that she was still in the greens and browns of the forest. She tried to lift her hands, but her wrists were bound in front of her, tied to the saddle.

Clarke felt her heart start to race, beginning to panic, the air inside the bag over her head was warm and stale and she felt like she was going to suffocate in her own exhalations. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, but if they wanted to kill her, she'd be dead right now, which means she was being taken to someone else. Had Azgeda finally found her?

Another, more muted wave of fear coursed through her. 14 was gone. And Clarke would probably never see her again. Because that's how it was here. She got people killed.

Clarke tried to speak, shouting against the cloth muting her voice and struggling against the bindings around her wrists, pulling at them, until she felt a hand roughly grab her by the front of her shirt and yank her halfway off the horse. Whoever holding her was strong ; half her bodyweight supported by a single arm.

"You keep it up, Wanheda, and I'll pull you from this horse and drag you behind it," a man's deep voice growled at her. He shoved her back into the saddle.

The horse began to sway beneath her again, dots of light playing across the burlap screen in front of her eyes.

She felt dizzy, her strength completely sapped by that small outburst, remembering the pints of blood 14's thirst had claimed. Clarke swallowed hard, her throat dry and feeling the broken skin around her neck prickle uncomfortably. She closed her eyes, allowing herself a few moments to grieve. She didn't care that this was weakness. 14 deserved to be mourned by someone.

Night had fallen, the bright yellow sun replaced by the white light of the full moon. The tiny boat continued to bob along the waves, the edge of the world disappearing into the infinite water.

"Clarke!"

This time it was 14's voice shouting her name inside her head. Clarke turned back towards the bench to see 14 standing now, naked, her bare shoulders and legs visible as she held Lexa's limp body in her arms, blood dripping onto the deck, dark and black in the moonlight.

"Wanheda," 14 whispered, the sound passing through her barely parted lips, eyes glittering silver as the waves reflected against them.

Clarke could barely hear the murmurings of people speaking in Trigedsleng over the roaring pulse in her ears, beating like ceremonial drums as she was marched towards her own death.

"Wanheda, kom ai don swega klin." Wanheda as Promised .

Clarke was shoved roughly to her knees and left there to listen as she heard a door close behind her, the voices of her captor and another person - a woman - obscured and muted as they continued their discussion in another room.

Clarke tried to make out what was being said, but between their rapid Trigedasleng and her own lingering wooziness, she had to shift her focus to simply remaining conscious.

The door opened again and Clarke caught the last few words - in English, this time - as the woman spoke.

"I'll honor our deal when your Queen honors my coalition. Lock Prince Roan of Azgeda away."

Hearing her voice, Clarke felt the world stop around her.

Lexa.

"Leave us," she commanded and Clarke heard the multiple people shuffle out of the room and the door close again.

They were alone. Clark blinked back tears as the sack was pulled from around her head, her eyes adjusting as she looked up at the silhouetted figure against the afternoon sun. She was finally face to face with the girl who had haunted her nightmares and soothed her in dreams.

"Hello, Clarke."

Clarke felt Lexa's gaze roam over her, taking in every bump and bruise, lingering on her neck and Clarke could only imagine what it must look like. A deep cut, surrounded by blood, smeared and dried… The bruising and swelling around her face from November's beating… The rest of her disheveled and dirty, days spent bound atop a horse after Lexa had sent the fucking Prince of Azgeda to drag her back to Polis. Back to her .

But Lexa didn't have Clarke. Clarke was the girl who had trembled against Lexa's lips, surprised and overwhelmed with desire. Clarke was the girl left choking back tears as she'd watched The Commander disappear into the night. Lexa did not deserve Clarke.

And so it was the seething, cold blue eyes of Wanheda that stared defiantly at Lexa as she reached out to remove the gag from Clarke's mouth.

"I'm sorry that it had to be this way," Lexa said, the eyes of The Commander looking back at her. "I had to ensure Wanheda didn't fall into the hands of The Ice Queen."

All traces of dizziness Clarke had felt minutes earlier were gone, her hatred giving her mind clarity like she had jumped into a freezing river, except instead of the breath rushing from her lungs, she drank it in, slowly, deeply, stoking the burning rage within herself.

"War is brewing, Clarke. I need you." The Commander's voice was softer now, the razor thin line between Heda and Lexa blurring.

Clarke couldn't believe The Commander, Lexa , had the audacity to ask for her help. After breaking her heart, breaking her trust, breaking her . Clarke clenched her jaw, wishing that her hands were untied so that she could wrap her fingers around Lexa's throat. But she couldn't. Not now. She would have to wait. She imagined 14 whispering in her ear to be patient, the heated shivers down her spine mingling with electric hatred in her core.

"Fuck. You." Clarke shouted, spitting in Lexa's face, the doors bursting open immediately at the sound of her raised voice.

As the guards dragged her away, Clarke relished the satisfaction she felt at seeing look of complete shock across Lexa's normally controlled features, her eyes wide and confused at Clarke's new ferocity - at meeting The Commander of Death.

The wind whipped past her ears as she ran, moving at the mile-eating pace she could maintain from dawn until dusk. She knew that she had to push further still, the moon guiding her as it travelled across the sky, meeting the first rays of sun as they spread their golden fingers through the treeline. This was her purpose: to be in complete awareness of every element of her physicality. Smooth. Controlled. Efficient. This was decades of genetic tinkering, tweaking amino acids and binary code into every cell as they twitched and flexed, propelling her body ever forward.

Days later and Clarke's blood still pumped through her veins. She had taken too much. She shouldn't still be able to feel her.

She had awoken under the blinding surgical lamps, her back arching off the table as her bare skin pressed against the electrical pulse surging through her. She remembered the gulping gasp of air as it filled her lungs, consciousness coming as a crashing wave before pulling her away into darkness again.

Her fingers had trembled as they touched the skin at the base of her skull, feeling the single, small column of stitches extending from her hairline several inches down her neck, not knowing whether they had put something in… or taken something out.

She breathed in the briny, salty air that followed her into the forest and tried to piece together the snatches of conversation she'd overheard during her brief captivity. An alliance. A way to control them. A new piece of tech.

Her feet carried her across the soft earth, over branches and around trees, no real memory of how she'd escaped, only able to remember how her mouth had watered, a primal signal from the code as the metallic smell of their blood permeated the air. She hadn't had time to take from them, to replenish, only hoping Clarke's strength would carry her far enough, away from their grasp and back to the last remaining person she could trust.

With each swing of her arms, perfectly in sync with every rebounding step, she remembered Clarke's warm weight as she held her, the force of Clarke's pulse ebbing, heartbeat slowing, the taste of blood tinged with the acidic bite of adrenaline as it passed over her tongue. For the first time in her life, she loathed the inhuman thing that she was.


	10. Chapter 10

For the first few days, the view had made Clarke dizzy, her previous world perspectives limited to the claustrophobia within The Ark, every person in her universe only ever a few hundred feet away, the "horizon" forming abruptly from metal and glass. Earth was just an abstract orb of colors spinning slowly beneath her. When she had arrived on land, the world spread out in front of her at eye level, trees soaring above as she tilted back her head. Now, while she was held captive hundreds of feet above the ground in the tallest tower in Polis, she could see miles beyond the forest floor, the hills and valleys and rivers twinkling in the sunlight and the constant movement of people walking between the sprawling warren of crumbled buildings and tents.

The moment the guards had sealed her in this room, Clarke began to search for something - anything - that she could use as a weapon. She ignored the ornate bed and comfortable chairs, the tapestries and candles, instead getting down on her hands and knees, crawling and peering and touching until she found a small metal dowel, about the length from her fingertip to her wrist, just small enough to hide but sturdy enough to puncture a throat.

Her hands were raw and blistered from the constant abrasion, but she ignored the pain, using it to keep her mind focused on everything 14 had taught her - patience, opportunity, power - as she rubbed the rounded tip against the stone railing on her balcony, honing it's dulled edge into a point. Clarke had to focus on 14's lessons to keep the empty, crushing terror she felt from consuming her, knowing that 14 was probably dead, cut open on some operating table, her life finally reduced to data saved on a computer.

Everything and everyone she had ever loved in any capacity - tried to love, wanted to love - would always be taken from her. Leave her. Be killed by her. This facet of her fate was becoming abundantly clear.

She heard the door to her room opening, the old hinges squeaking slightly.

"Hello, Clarke."

Clark slid the makeshift dagger up her sleeve and turned to find Lexa standing in the middle of her room, the door clicking shut behind her. It was jarring, seeing her again in person, her battle armor and war paint absent, her hands without their studded gloves, bare, clasped in front of her. She still wore her coat, it's high collar accentuating her long neck and regal posture, long braids tumbling down her back. Clarke focused on the small metal symbol of The Commander set between her eyebrows, wondering briefly if Lexa ever took it off or if even in sleep, she would always be Heda.

"What part of 'I won't see you' was unclear?" Clarke asked, knowing that as a prisoner she had very little say in the matter.

"I respected your wishes for as long as I could, but we have bigger concerns right now," the tone of The Commander addressing Clarke.

"We don't have any concerns at all," Clarke replied coldly.

"Yes we do. Your people have begun to move into Mount Weather, and while I know Kane is an honorable leader, the rest of the clans don't trust Skaikru. I'm hosting a summit in the coming weeks, to which Skaikru is invited. You may stay here until then, or you may return to your people tomorrow if you wish." Lexa explained.

"Why do you need me, then? You are comfortable dealing with Kane. Why go through all the trouble to capture me just to let me go?"

"I went through all that trouble to save you," Lexa said, her tone softer as she took one measured pace towards Clarke.

"Like you give a shit about me." Clarke was furious.

As if Lexa had any right to claim she cared about her. She had certainly made Clarke believe that she cared, but the moment Lexa decided to side with The Mountain Men, her true intentions became apparent. She would take whatever the best opportunity was - loyalty and trust completely disregarded. Or maybe not even really there to begin with. Clarke still felt the lurching sickness that Lexa had played her

Clarke watched as Lexa blinked slowly, taking in a deep breath before continuing.

"You're angry, Clarke, but I know you. I know what you've done haunts you. And I know it's easier to hate me than hate yourself."

"Oh. I can do both," Clarke said, trying to keep her voice steady against the rage and despair she felt.

Clarke thought Lexa was going to rise to her baiting, her eyes were bright, her full lips parted slightly, but she sealed them again, taking another careful breath before continuing.

"We can discuss this more later if you'd like, but for now, I was hoping you would consider the needs of your people and at least think about my proposition."

Clarke crossed her arms, but said nothing.

"If your people continue to settle in Mount Weather, I cannot protect them from the other clans. I want you to become an ambassador between our people, and eventually I want your people to become my people. I'm offering Skaikru the chance to join my coalition, become the 13th Clan. No one would dare to move against you because that would be moving against me."

"Just leave me alone. I'm done. Do you understand that? I left." Clarke tried to hide behind the anger in her voice, doing everything she could to keep tears of frustration from filling her eyes. She was no one. She had no people. She didn't deserve to. Not yet.

"You can't run away from who you are, Clarke," Lexa said, all of the understanding they had built between them before the betrayal coming to the surface again. "Bow before me and your people will be safe."

"Bow before you?!" Clarke's anger ripped through her again. "You don't give a damn about my people. I know why you're here. I made you look weak at Mount Weather. You're afraid because my people now have The Mountain. And the Ice Nation is exploiting that."

Clarke paused, trying to calm herself, to stay focused. Her voice was steady and low as she continued.

"Well, if you want the power of Wanheda, kill me. Take it."

Clarke stared into Lexa's green eyes, willing The Commander to attack her. It would either mean her vengeance or the end to her suffering. She wasn't sure which she wanted more.

"But I will never bow before you."

Clarke watched as Lexa blinked rapidly, swallowing hard. They both knew that each had the power to see beyond the walls and lies and posturing. Clarke hated that Lexa did still know her, but she knew that she could also still cut below Lexa's surface. She could feel the pointed bit of metal pressing against her wrist as she balled her hands into fists.

Lexa turned to leave the room, her coat billowing behind her.

Clarke reached a hand out towards a chair to steady herself, adrenaline making her whole body shake, lingering weakness from bloodloss still clinging to her muscles. She took a few deep, gulping breaths before walking back out to the balcony, the makeshift knife sliding from her sleeve into her hand, ready to resume its angled glide across the stone.

Lexa spun, her staff ready to block the next blow as it came from the youth, Aden, in front of her. They clashed together, hard enough to hurt if they missed, but light enough that it wouldn't leave more than a bruise. It was her job as Heda to show them restraint, control, even in battle. It was her job as Heda to train the next generation of Commanders. Commander. Only one of them would ascend after she died. Every time she looked into their young eyes, adoration looking back at her, she was reminded that the spirit of her ancestors would live on in a single Natblida.Nightblood. But death was the way of their world. She would die someday, likely sooner than most, and she had to know that her people, her legacy, would be safe in any of their young hands.

Clarke. Her blue eyes brimming with tears, begging Lexa not to leave them.

Lexa felt Aden's fist as it connected with her jaw, a sharp reminder that she had lost focus. Had been a real fight, the distraction could have been deadly - no matter how much, deep, deep, deep down, she might want to be distracted.

"Good, Aden. Very good."

She allowed a small smile as she watched the boy beam back at her. It was no secret that he had the most potential out of all the Nightbloods. But potential was not a guarantee. Any one of them could be chosen by The Commander's Spirit.

"Back to your training."

Lexa watched as Aden trotted back towards the others were still practicing before walking to where her own teacher, Titus, was standing. She could already feel his anxiety and disapproval as she closed the distance between them.

"Aden is ready. He's even better than I was at my conclave," Lexa said, deciding to steer the conversation before Titus could open his mouth.

He inclined his head, agreeing with her, his years training Nightbloods and advising Commanders an invaluable resource and the closest thing to a friend any of them would ever have. Even after all these years together, she was still fascinated by the crown of geometric tattoos covering his shaved scalp and earlobes.

"How was your talk with Wanheda? Was it as I said?"

"She will come around," Lexa answered, resting her elbows against the short wall surrounding the training ground. Although she spent more time in the tower throne room - too much, in her opinion - this was one of her favorite places in all of Polis. Her beloved forest stretching out as far in front of her as she could see, the sounds of wooden swords and grunts of combat in staccato rhythm with the birdsong around her.

"But will the other clans? Your entire plan relies on Wanheda's ability to convince Skaikru to join your coalition. What if they refuse? Queen Nia has been stirring fears of a Skaikru retaliation. Everything we've worked for…"

"The clans will accept it when they see Wanheda bow before me."

"The clans would respect it more if you had Wanheda's power. Strike her down. Kill her. Take her power." Titus said.

It's not like she hadn't thought about it. About killing Clarke. The expected move for her would have been to capture and kill Wanheda publically, thousands of her people there to witness as Heda spilled the blood of The Commander of Death, cementing Lexa as the most powerful Commander since The First.

She could feel Clarke's pulse under her thumb as her hand pulled Clarke closer, not knowing whether her boldness would be reciprocated and the rush she had felt when Clarke had...

Lexa closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, remembering that Titus was standing just a few feet away. She forced herself to think about how Clarke had looked at her a few hours ago - the cold, infinite hatred flowing from her like mist over a frozen river, any heat that had ever been between them long since evaporated. Whatever Lexa might want would always be irrelevant.

To be The Commander is to be alone.

That was the lesson Titus had taught her-had tried to teach her-before Costia's head had been delivered to her bed soon after she became Heda. It had been her fault. It would always be her fault. But she would make sure that nobody - not Queen Nia nor any other clan leaders - would be able to use Wanheda - Clarke - as a way to control her. And Wanheda's alliance was the only way to ensure her and her people's safety. The only way for Lexa to make amends for the decisions of The Commander.

Lexa and Titus turned away from the valley view as they heard a guard approaching.

"Heda. Wanheda gaf in chich op yu." Wanheda wants to talk with you.

The sound of the door latch sent Clarke's heart racing, the metal shiv sliding smoothly from her sleeve into her hand. She kept her back turned, listening as Lexa entered the room.

"Clarke…"

Clarke blinked and in the millisecond behind her eyelids, she saw 14 staring back at her, the fierce grey storm urging her forward, Clarke's pulse roaring in her ears, drowning out every other sound beyond the sharp cluck of Lexa's tongue as she finished saying Clarke's name.

Before she could think, reconsider, she was spinning, turning towards The Commander, reaching out with one hand, grabbing her shirt to pull her closer, the other hand bringing the point of her makeshift dagger to press against the pulsing skin just below Lexa's jaw.

Clarke watched a small drop of red bloom at the tip of her knife as it barely pierced the soft flesh of Lexa's neck. Lexa didn't move. She didn't struggle or try to fight back. Clarke's eyes shifted from Lexa's neck to her mouth, her lips barely parted but no noise escaping, no shouts for her guards or begging Clarke to stop. Nothing. She was completely still, allowing Clarke full control in this moment.

Clarke looked up into Lexa's green eyes, bright like the Northern Lights she had watched against the infinite darkness above the Earth's atmosphere and she knew that she couldn't do it. She couldn't kill Lexa. Whether she wanted to rationalize that killing the Grounder Commander would doom her people to war didn't change the fact that she had lied to herself; had lied to 14. Her vengeance wouldn't bring any of them back. It would just be more blood, sticky and thick, permanent red gloves on her hands.

"I'm sorry," Lexa whispered, never taking her eyes from Clarke's.

She felt tears welling in her eyes, her lower lip quivering, threatening to break the dam she had kept in place while in Lexa's presence, but it was too much. With a stifled sob, she pushed Lexa away from her, turning her back to The Commander as the weapon fell from her limp hand, clattering on the stone floor.

"I never meant to turn you into this," Lexa said, her voice both full of genuine remorse and awe at the tortured violence within Clarke. "I'll have horses and an escort readied to take you back to your people tonight."

Clarke sniffled, trying to control her breathing. Lexa didn't know what she had become, not really. She didn't know the lengths Clarke had gone to prepare for this moment. The weeks she had spent hating herself alone in the woods and the weeks she had spent forging that hatred into murderous purpose. Lexa didn't know the way she still ached for her friend, her companion, her mentor. And she wouldn't. Clarke would never mention 14 to anyone. She would keep her word.

"No," Clarke began, hoping her voice would steady itself as she turned back to face Lexa. The way Lexa looked at her - still looked at her - made Clarke's stomach twist. She hadn't been lying to 14 when she had said she had wanted to love Lexa. And whether or not Lexa had wanted to love her in return was irrelevant now. But they could still be useful to each other, for their people.

"You told me once that Polis would change the way I thought about your people," Clarke began. She watched as the barest hint of curiosity played across Lexa's features before disappearing again, always in control, always hiding behind the mask of power. "I'm here. So if you want Skaikru to join your coalition, convince me why we should ever trust you again."

Lexa gave her customary small nod before walking towards Clarke. She kneeled, picking up the dropped blade, her fingertips lightly grazing Clarke's palm as she placed it in her hand.

"Thank you, Clarke."

They stood, looking at each other for several long heartbeats, Clarke wondering if she'd made a mistake, but knowing that if she was going to return to her people, become the leader she was supposed to be, then she would have to figure out a way to work with The Grounders. With The Commander. With Lexa.


	11. Chapter 11

Something was wrong. With each swing of her arms, 14 could feel the metal staples pulling at the the red, raw holes in her skin along her ribs. They weren't healing. Not fast enough. And she felt tired, the strength from Clarke's blood waning as she pushed herself past exhaustion.

She could feel them in the air as they moved like she moved; knowing they were closing in around her.

The first bullet whizzed by her ear, the tips of her wild grey hair exploding like a dandelion in a gust of wind. She felt the next one, hot, searing pain ripping through her upper back. Skidding behind a tree, she held a hand up to her shoulder, her finger probing for an exit wound, the hard nub of metal below her skin telling her she would have to dig it out later. She took a deep breath. Lungs felt fine; she could keep going. But she would have to deal with them. She couldn't lead them back to her. She was close. Or hoped she was.

14 waited behind the tree, slowing her breathing, her heart rate, ears pricked to any sound in the dark. After several long minutes of feeling hot blood oozing down her back as the programming increased the thirst in her throat, she was rewarded, her head turning instantly towards the faint sound of a twig snapping. She lowered her hand, her thumb silently unclasping the stolen knife at her belt as she slunk deeper into the darkness.

14 bent over, retching the liquid contents of her stomach onto the leaves at her feet. In desperation, she had tried to ignore the unnatural stench from their blood, but as she spat the last from her mouth, she couldn't get rid of the bitter, rancid flavor that lingered on her tongue. 14 wondered if they had been poisoned against her with chemicals or with code.

She took off again at a slow trot, trying her best to ration what little energy she had left, feeling the fragment of metal scraping against bone with every step.

Clarke rolled over in her bed, coming back into the world as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, bracing herself for the bright, stinging daylight that never came. It was still dark outside, at least half an hour until the sky would begin to lighten at the edges.

The faint tapping on her door resumed.

She swung her feet over the side of the bed, slightly more awake as her skin met cold stone, and padded quietly towards the sound. Yawning as she opened the door, she was surprised to see Lexa standing in front of her, the small round jewelry between her eyebrows glittered as it caught and reflected light from candles in the hallway.

"Good morning, Clarke."

"Is it?" Clarke's voice was raspy and she stifled another yawn, squinting at the candlelight framing Lexa.

"We can postpone another day if you would like to rest more," she said, genuine concern in her voice, tinged at the edges with disappointment; her eyes roaming Clarke's face and Clark was sure she saw them hesitate just a moment longer at the still-healing cut on her neck. It had been nearly a week. It looked better than it should, but it didn't look great. She still felt a little tired. Anemia probably. It would pass soon.

"No! No. No. Just… just give me a minute."

Clarke moved from the doorway, and Lexa stepped into her room, her hands clasped firmly behind her back. Clarke watched as Lexa's surveyed the space as if she were seeing it for the first time. As if everything in it wasn't already hers. She even waited to sit until Clarke gestured to one of the chairs near the balcony.

"So what are we doing today that starts at night?" Clarke called from the bathroom.

"Showing you Polis."

Clarke rolled her eyes as she pulled a clean shirt over her head. Though without being able to read her face to face, she really wasn't sure if Lexa was fucking with her or not. It wasn't like she knew a whole lot of Grounders on a one-to-one level. Maybe they were just super literal. And really early risers. 

Clarke's thighs burned as they continued their ascent inside the tower; first the dimly lit staircase, then Lexa had grabbed Clarke's hand as she'd gone for the door at the landing, instead pulling her towards the rungs of the ladder extending upward into the darkness. The well-worn steel tubes solid and polished in the palms of her hands. She had been grateful to feel the cool air blowing down the passageway when they finally reached the apex, climbing out from the vertical tunnel onto the landing above.

Clarke hadn't opened her eyes since she'd first tried to look out over the world from the top of the tower, snapping them shut, lowering herself to the roof deck before her legs could give out from beneath her. She leaned against the short wall around the perimeter, trying to breathe, trying not to die. She could feel the gentle heat from the enormous fire at the roof's center, the flames wiggled and waved in the light breeze and it made her arms break out in goosebumps as the wind cooled the sweat on her skin.

"The girl who lived in the sky is afraid of heights."

Clarke could feel the teasing amusement in Lexa's voice and if all the blood hadn't drained from her face, she's sure she would be blushing in embarrassment.

"Shut up. I'm not afraid. I'm just… not used to it yet." Clarke sucked in another deep lungful of air, grateful that they hadn't eaten breakfast yet as her stomach lurched and somersaulted.

"Clarke. Look at me."

Lexa was on one knee in front of her, impossibly, unexpectedly, distractingly close. The nausea and lightheadedness melting away as she felt hypnotized, powerless, lost in the jade forest of Lexa's eyes, still dilated against the pre-dawn sky.

"I won't let you fall. Trust m-"

Lexa bit off the last part of her sentence as Clarke felt her own expression harden at the single word that had the ability to either build or break them. Clarke swallowed down the flash of anger that had become instinctual now, forcing herself to remember that the past was the past and that Clarke Griffin, Wanheda and Leader of Skaikru, was going to have to learn to trust Heda Lexa, Commander of The 12 Clans.

For her people.

This uncomfortable, fragile testing of another possible alliance was for them.

"Okay." Clarke nodded. Lexa rose to her feet, giving Clarke's arm a gentle tug, and as Clarke attempted to join her, she closed her eyes again, this time not against the whirling landscape below but at the memory of 14 standing in front of her, snowflakes swirling all around them, the taste of blood in her mouth and warm strength of 14's hand as it wrapped around her arm, pulling her to her feet.

Eyes still closed and breathing deeply, she let Lexa position her so that the front of her legs pressed against the wall, her palms resting flat across its top, and as she felt Lexa grab a handful of fabric from the back of her shirt, feeling it strain against her chest, it was silly but she did feel safer, like Lexa would never let go of her again. Never let her go.

"Open your eyes, Clarke." Lexa's voice was soft, like a confession, a plea for her to see the world, see her, in a new way. It was the same small voice she had used in the tent as Clarke had backed her into the table, admitting she cared for Clarke and the same earnestness when she apologized yesterday, Clarke's blade pressed against her throat.

And as Clarke obeyed, her eyelids fluttering slowly open, she gasped, feeling Lexa release the fabric in her hand. She saw her beloved sky, yellow and orange and red sun at the horizon, fading into pinks and purples as the golden light met the blues of a new day and ending night. Clouds reflected pinkish grey, spreading out in all directions, fluffy and sparse. She couldn't stop the tears in her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks as the colors became more brilliant the longer she watched the sunrise.

For all the heartache and violence and death and laughter and love and every other feeling she had experienced since her arrival on the ground - and in her 18 short years of breath - she had never felt quite so close to absolute perfection and peace as at this moment. She wanted to cry, to shout, to leap off the tower and fly towards the sun, ready to burn and disintegrate into ashes, molecules, atoms, some small part of her everywhere, blanketing the Earth.

Clarke turned her head, to see if the sunrise affected Lexa similarly, to see if her eyes watered at the dawn spilling across her domain, but she found herself looking back into Lexa's as though Lexa had been watching her reaction the entire time. She looked nervous, hopeful, and like she was trying to tamp down those and every other emotion, but as soon as Clarke's eyes landed on her, she allowed a small half-smile across her lips.

Clarke watched as the new day bathed her stunning features in golden light, her eyes like green glass, the line of her jaw casting a sharp shadow down her long neck and thinking that if their fates were their own and not bound to the lives of thousands of people, if so many other ifs and what ifs were different, that this was exactly how she had imagined feeling the moment Lexa had invited her to Polis. She thinks would have grabbed her and kissed her, the warm sun heating their faces, eyes closed against the bright light, uninterrupted by the world that had not yet awoken.

The image was bittersweet as Clarke saw the smile across Lexa's face fade. She wondered if Lexa had imagined this moment as well and if bringing her up here to see the sunrise was fulfilling some promise she had made to herself, regardless of the fact that each of them knew that vision lay at the end of a path lost to them the moment they parted at The Mountain.

"Do you see the river there?" Lexa asked, turning and extending her arm to point behind them. "If you follow that river, it will lead you back to the sea," Lexa moved her arm back towards the East "where the Floukru live. And there, over that ridge of mountains a few days travel," again, Lexa moved her hand, "is the desert region of the Sankru. Due North and extending West and many days travel is Azgeda's territory."

Clarke found herself enjoying Lexa's geography lesson from the top of the tower. Her nerves had finally calmed, the dizziness and palpitations gone, and she truly marvelled at the expanse of land and people that Lexa was able to unite under her cause of peace. There was no denying that Lexa was impressive , just a few years older than Clarke herself, and she thought it strange how of all people for her to meet on the ground, it would be the most powerful person in the known world.

"... and just beyond Trikru territory that way is where your people, Skaikru, first arrived. Over there, past those mountains, is where your people are now, in Mount Weather." Lexa finished, returning her gaze to Clarke.

"Did you see it when we crashed?" Clarke asked, her eyes still trained towards her people's new home, her old prison.

"How could we not? You were a blinding star shooting across the sky at midday." Lexa was almost reverent and Clarke wondered how the Grounder faith handled an entire group people falling from the heavens. 

They picked their way through the maze of food stands and shop stalls setting up for the day's market. Carts laden with brightly colored produce, fish still flopping in baskets, pieces of animal flesh butchered into portions all moved through the city as merchants unfurled awnings and began placing their wares on tables. It was still early enough that shoppers were not yet crowding the streets, many with empty bags at their feet sat eating their breakfasts at any number of small outdoor tables.

Clarke followed as Lexa led her down one winding street after another, the emptiness in her stomach growing more painful with each passing cloud of smoke from cooking fires and steam rising from bubbling pots. She was ravenous, and about to suggest that they just eat somewhere when she almost bumped into Lexa who had stopped in front of her.

"Heya, Striknamon." Hello, little mother.

The woman at the stall looked up from stirring the large pot, her face immediately transformed by a toothy grin as she saw Lexa in front of her.

"Heya, Strikheda." Hello, little Heda. "Good morning, Wanheda." As she nodded towards her, Clarke was torn between hating her notoriety and being grateful at the switch to English. Her Trigedasleng was passable, but nowhere near fluent. "I have not seen you in many weeks, Heda. How will you swing your sword without Striknamon's breakfast to keep you strong?"

Clarke was sure she had seen an almost-wink directed at Lexa, the older woman's eyes both motherly and mischievous and as Clarke looked at Lexa, she was also almost sure she saw a slight reddening of her cheeks. Striknamon gestured for them to sit at one of the handful of small tables around her stall where other Polis market-goers were slurping something from bowls and chattering about the day in their native tongue. Moments later, Striknamon set bowls in front of them, each filled with a creamy, white porridge, topped with a few cut green vegetables, some slices of meat, and Clarke recognized the golden yolk of a fresh egg. It smelled wonderful .

Picking up her spoon, Clarke paused to look around and was surprised at the lack of fanfare at The Commander's arrival and as if reading her thoughts, Lexa spoke, her own spoon holding a steaming bite cooling in the air.

"Everyone is everyone at Striknamon's stand," Lexa said before taking her first bite, then reaching to the small jars at the center of the table and adding a tiny spoonful of red powder to her bowl.

Clarke followed her example and tried her first spoonful. Before coming to Earth, she'd had no idea that food could make her feel like this. It was like the epiphany she'd had after her first taste of cake at Mt. Weather. It was like it tickled at a memory she'd never made, of comfort and reassurance and home . She savored each bite, the crunchy textures of the vegetables, the satisfying chew of meat and the rich egg yolk as it all mixed together across her tongue.

"This is… incredible. How did you find it? You grew up in the Trikru territory, right?" Clarke asked, the next heaping spoonful beginning to build a satisfying fullness in her belly.

"Yes. I came here to begin my training when I was very young, but didn't find this place until much later. We were walking around the market before training and then came nearly every morning since then." Lexa said, her eyes suddenly dropping to her meal which had become very interesting and Clarke realized who the 'we' actually meant - Lexa and Costia. Long before Lexa had become Heda. Long before Costia's death and long before Lexa had sworn herself away from ever desiring anything for herself again.

In a world where The Commander is not allowed to want anything for herself, being able to find comfort in a small bowl of soupy grains with an estranged friend was to be cherished.

Warmth surged through Clarke's body, having nothing to do with the steaming food she'd been shoveling into her mouth. Today wasn't a tour of Polis by The Commander; today was Lexa showing Clarke her home. It was a biography of places, a story that Clarke got not just to see, but feel and taste and smell and experience . The rough rocks of the stone wall around the tower on her palms; the smell of a city in the early morning with food and smoke and people and animals and mud… It was overwhelming in the best way possible and she was so grateful that she wasn't still up in space, walking in the same circles around the same rooms, the only things ever changing were the positions of the stars infinite miles away outside the thick windows.

Lexa looked up at her again, her eyes glassy. Clarke smiled, hoping that Lexa understood the sincere gratitude behind it. This was the continuation of a conversation they had begun just before everything had gone to shit. Back when Lexa was learning to - wanting to - trust Clarke. Now Lexa was asking for it in return and Clarke knew she was starting to want to trust her again. She was weak. She didn't have to show that part to Lexa, but she knew it was there and god she hated herself for it.

Clarke already knew that the tour of her wouldn't be the artificially lit corridors of The Ark, glass and metal twisting into an inescapable maze or even the dark, utilitarian Dropship with it's stamped metal floors and rusted crevices. The person she was now, the skin she was most comfortable in, was created in a small bunker with a skylight, the sound of rain thrumming on the translucent pane above, the tiny wood burning stove crackling and popping and flickering shadows, the unmade bed where she slept, the coffee table and sofa with the mess of silver grey hair poking up over the top every morning when she opened her eyes. Every morning except the last two, when 14 had slept beside her, Clarke was briefly lost in remembering the secure feeling of 14 curling an arm around her, pulling her close, nuzzling and drowsily murmuring into her ear.

But that had only been a tiny fraction of their relationship, a few moments of physical comfort after weeks of physical strain, building trust and healing old wounds with sweat and bruises and blood. She missed her friend. She thought about what it would be like if on the tour of the bunker, 14 had been at her spot on the couch and the way 14 and Lexa would look at each other; a storm converging over the forest.

Before she could stop herself, a half-choked sob mingled with a burst of laughter and bubbled up from her throat, the unshed tears spilling out, caught in her eyelashes. At the sound, she knew Lexa would be watching her - if she hadn't been already - and tried to play it off as a cough.

"I didn't know that red stuff would be so spicy." Clarke lied. She knew Lexa knew it was a lie, but Lexa graciously accepted it without question, nodding once and giving Clarke a small smile that didn't touch her eyes. They both had ghosts that lived in their blood, in their bones, and to speak of them would release them into the world where they might disappear.

"When do Skaikru begin their training? Do they teach everyone to fight?" Lexa asked as they walked away from the city center, towards the surrounding woods.

Clarke laughed, remembering how unprepared for the savagery of life on the ground she had been only a few months ago.

"No. We had regular school, like with classrooms and sitting in desks. Like reading and writing and math and science. Even a class called 'Earth Skills' where we learned how to do survival stuff like make fires and build shelters. No one ever thought we would need it. We were taught that the world would be unlivable for at least another hundred years."

"And yet, here you are." Lexa said as they strolled deeper into the trees, the path winding up a gentle incline.

"Here I am." Clarke sighed, turning to see Lexa already looking at her. They took several paces, their eyes never breaking contact until the sounds of swordplay - the clashing metal against metal, against wood - filtered through the trees ahead. Clarke turned towards the commotion, expecting they would follow the path towards the sound, but Lexa continued on the upward slope.

"That way is The Pits, where guards and warriors train."

"And where we're going?" Clarke asked, jutting her chin towards wherever Lexa was leading.

"Where Hedas train."

Clarke shaded her eyes against the sun's rays as they danced between the leaves and shadows of the trees around her, the charred wood remnants of a fire the only thing keeping her company on the large flat rock overlooking the training area below. She watched for hours, fascinated, as pairs of novitiates drilled attacks and counters under the supervision of the man Lexa had introduced as Titus, her own mentor and advisor, his bald head covered in a crown of geometric tattoos.

As she pulled novitiates from their pairs throughout the day to work with her individually, the size difference between Lexa and some of the children reminded Clarke of when she was a girl, standing on her father's feet as he waltzed her around their cabin in The Ark, dipping and twirling her as she had squealed with delight. But these weren't children playing at war and Lexa wasn't some babysitter sent to coddle them into adulthood. Any one of them needed to be prepared to take her place as Heda when she was gone. She moved, they moved, they moved, she moved - a choreographed dance where every missed parry and every successful strike was a lesson in the razor thin line between death and life.

Lexa set down her staff to correct the boy she was training, moving his arm one way, kicking his feet out slightly to form a more stable base, all the while instructing him in a voice too soft for Clarke to hear from her perch. As Lexa raised her staff again, ready for him to put her lesson into practice, Clarke felt the sharp pang of 14's absence, remembering the hours she had spent training Clarke for the assassination she would never complete. The way she would place her hands on Clarke's body, strong and precise, correcting her position by millimeters it seemed, and then they would drill again, over and over until it had been etched into Clarke's muscle memory.

Before Clarke could even notice the shadows lengthening, the sun had moved across the sky into the late afternoon. When Titus rounded up the youngsters, Clarke watched while Lexa gathered the overshirt she had discarded and climbed the stone steps, her bare arms glistening as they caught the light of the setting sun. She looked radiant, even with her braided hair in disarray, even with dirt on her face, her cheeks flushed from exertion. She was graceful as she sat down next to Clarke, her long legs elegantly folding into a cross-legged position, her head tilted back as she drank from her waterskin before using her forearm to wipe the excess water from her chin.

Clarke couldn't help but stare, couldn't help but inhale deeply as Lexa sat close, their shoulders nearly touching, bringing with her the scent of trees and sweat and leather and the faintest traces of soap as the breeze blew through her hair; all of it mingling into a comforting, earthy smell that was just Lexa .

"Do you train with them everyday you're in Polis?" Clarke asked, trying to keep her eyes from following the small beads of sweat as they joined and created tiny rivulets twisting like tiny dancing snakes around Lexa's exposed skin.

"Not every day, no. But often. If I cannot come here, then they come to the tower and we talk."

"About what?"

Lexa mulled over Clarke's question for a few moments, casually wiping the back of her hand across the sweat still clinging to her throat before she turned to look into Clarke's eyes.

"About what they will have to do as Heda. About what they must be prepared to do. My people, we understand death. Sometimes I think we understand it more than living. Heda must understand the value in both."

"Did you understand when you were a novitiate?"

"I thought I did."

"And now?"

"Children can only begin to comprehend sacrifice. It is still abstract, like the feeling of snow if you've never been cold or drunkenness if you've never felt the burn of souda in your throat. You cannot know."

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, watching the sky turn from golden to crimson red, the creeping indigo above inching towards the horizon.

"Thank you, Clarke."

It took a moment for Clarke to register that Lexa had even spoken, her voice was so quiet.

"For what?" Clarke asked, her head tilted upwards at the rising moon, the first white pinpricks of stars beginning to shine against the darkening heavens.

"For being willing to try and look past your hatred of me. For your people. I know this must be hard for you."

Those last words. They weren't a mistake. But they weren't an invitation, either. They were words spoken lifetimes ago when they were still learning to trust one another. Still wanting to trust one another.

Clarke turned to face Lexa. They looked at each other a long moment, blue searching green and green searching blue for truths that would never make it to their lips. Not yet.


	12. Chapter 12

The water swirled around her ankles, pushing and pulling as it reached for the shore and retreated back to the deep, like the ocean kept changing its mind about where it wanted her. She wiggled her toes, curling them under and feeling the grit of each grain of sand grinding against itself, against her skin.

"May I speak now?" Lexa's voice was barely a puff of air against the back of her bare shoulder; it sent a shiver down her spine, her flesh trembling into goosebumps despite the warmth outside.

"I never said you couldn't." Clarke answered, squinting against the light sparkling on the water, the sun slowly inching towards the horizon.

"But you didn't want me to." Lexa stepped from behind her to stand shoulder to shoulder.

"When has it ever mattered what I wanted?" Clarke turned her head to face Lexa, to look into those liquid green eyes that matched the water at just the depth where her feet wouldn't be able to touch the sand below. She would drown in those eyes, the water spilling over her head as she abandoned both the land and the sky.

"We make our own choices, we pay our own prices, Clarke." A harmonious duo of voices wrapped around her, one the stirring command of bloodlust in a soldier, the other like a breathy whisper in the dark that tickled against her ear, each settling beneath her ribs, coiling around each other like snakes.

14 appeared on Clarke's other side, warpaint around her eyes, streaking down her cheeks, thick and red. Droplets fell from the line of her jaw onto the beach below, the round orbs instantly covered in grains of sand like coarse armor. She knelt, her hands cupped together, and let the ocean's water flow into them before standing and lifting them towards Clarke.

"But I never wanted any of this," Clarke said, her voice cracking at the edges, heavy with the strange, torpid emotion of dreams. She leaned forward, pressing her lips to the surface of the water. It was salty, warm, familiar. Tears streamed down her face, dripping off her chin and back into 14's palms as she drank.

The next sip felt thick in her mouth, hot, metallic. She spat it at her feet and watched as blood faded away into the clear water like smoke.

Clarke sat up in bed, the sheets clinging to her sweaty skin, dizzy from getting up too fast. She breathed deeply, still able to taste the iron on her tongue.

The sun was only minutes away from touching the horizon. She must have slept through Lexa's knocking. Clarke lept out of bed, throwing on a long-sleeve shirt over her tank top and some loose fitting pants from the wardrobe in the corner before bolting out the door towards the stairs leading up to the roof. It wasn't until her toes wrapped around the cold bars of the ladder that she realized she'd forgotten shoes.

As she climbed out onto the landing, she saw Lexa turn away from the sunrise, her eyebrows rising a fraction of an inch, her mouth barely opening around a question.

"Sorry I slept through the knocking."

"I didn't knock on your door this morning, Clarke."

Clarke sincerely hoped that the orangered light spilling across the sky camouflaged her embarrassment. Lexa was alone on purpose.

"Oh. Sorry. I just thought-I'll just- Sorry." Clarke hurried back towards the passageway leading downward, away from her shame.

"Clarke."

She froze, her hands stilling around the rungs of the ladder.

"Stop apologizing," Lexa said, the smallest hint of teasing in her voice, continuing before Clarke had a chance to speak, another apology on her lips. "I didn't wake you this morning because you had already been up here. I know not everyone likes waking up when it's still dark."

"Do you come out here every morning?" Clarke asked, shifting her weight to one leg, feeling the cold, rough concrete under the soles of her feet as she stood on the roof, tendrils of her hair slowly moving in the wind like water.

"Only when I can't sleep."

Clarke nodded. She wondered if it was old or new ghosts that haunted her in her dreams last night, knowing that Lexa would never admit to either.

As Clarke moved to stand next to Lexa, against the outer wall of the tower, she watched as Lexa's eyes flickered away from hers for a moment, quickly taking in the deep neckline of her shirt and the outline of her figure as the wind pushed against the thin fabric of her pants, all the way down to her bare feet, her mouth forming around a small smirk.

"I was in a hurry." Clarke answered Lexa's silent ribbing. It was time to change the subject. "So, let's say I agree to become Skaikru's Ambassador..."

"You've decided, then?"

"I can't promise that we will become the 13th Clan, but it makes sense for us to have a political presence within Polis if that is what you're offering."

"It is."

"Then what do I have to do?"

"If you agree, there will be a ceremony this evening in front of the other Ambassadors," Lexa said. She paused, seeming reluctant to speak. "They will need to see Wanheda bow before me, Clarke."

Clarke gritted her teeth and nodded. This was the price she must pay for her people. Her pride for their prosperity.

They looked at the growing dawn together in silence for a long moment before Clarke lowered her eyes, watching as her fingertips rubbed against the stone wall, noticing how Lexa's hands were spread similarly next to hers, so still, like she was trying not to move. Clarke imagined sliding her hand across those vast millimeters, the outer edges of their hands coming into contact; the way Lexa would turn and look at her, her eyes asking a thousand questions that Clarke still had no answers for; questions she would never utter aloud, even in the complete isolation of the tower.

Or Lexa would slide her hand further away, out of contact with Clarke's. The assumption that Lexa would still welcome that touch was presumptive, arrogant, and not in any way helpful in this new alliance they were building. Clarke felt more angry at herself for that temporary insanity than the imminent surrender of power she would have to do tonight.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lexa's head tilt down, her eyes softening momentarily, an imperceptible flutter of melancholy as she stared at their hands before straightening her posture and walking towards the ladder.

"So what's the plan for today?" Clarke called after her.

"Today I have meetings," Lexa said, seeming slightly disappointed that her Commander responsibilities dictated her schedule. "I will see that you have everything you need for the ceremony tonight."

Clarke took a deep breath before sinking beneath the warm water, experimenting with the weightless feeling of her body in the large metal tub. To float, even for just a few moments, the alien sound of her movements under the surface, muted and distorted, womb-like and comforting. She thought what a waste it had been while they were in space to not let everyone feel what it was like to be completely untethered, the Ark's artificial gravity keeping them forever bound to a false Earth.

While she sat wrapped in a towel, two handmaidens silently prepared her body to be presented at the sundown ceremony. She tried to relax into the soothing sensation of the comb against her scalp, the gentle pulls of their fingers as they twisted her hair into an intricate array of braids, the delicate press of fingertips against her face, spreading a shimmering blue paste across her eyelids forming a mask that reached her temples. But every few minutes, a wave of adrenaline crashed through her bloodstream, making her want to run down thousands of stairs and into the woods, back to the safety of the bunker, back in time to when she was watching the clouds swirl around the blue orb through three inches of glass.

She wondered if these bursts of overwhelming anxiety would ever fully go away or if this is a disease of Earth, a scar that would tether her to the past for the rest of her life.

Clarke stood outside the doors to the throne room, her heart thudding against her ribs, a tightness growing in her throat as she listened to the keening wail of the cantor in the next room; her melody full of sorrow for lives and loves and intentions lost to the harsh world.

The large doors opened, their hinges groaning slightly, and Clarke stepped into the room. It looked very different now that her eyes weren't adjusting to the bright afternoon light after being hidden behind a burlap sack, still woozy from blood-loss and the heart-stopping confusion at seeing Lexa for the first time since their parting at Mount Weather months earlier. Now she was prepared to see Lexa at the opposite end of the room. Or thought she was.

Clarke should have known she would not be in her usual Commander clothing as Clarke had been dressed in an intricately cut leather dress, dyed gold and blue to match her hair and eyes. Lexa's eye make up was similarly shaped, but green like the forest of her irises and her dress was dark, tight as it wrapped around her torso, bare shoulders and olive skin shimmering faintly, intensified by the hundreds of candles lighting the room, dancing shadows cast against the golden glow. She was stunning, breathtaking in both her beauty and power, looking down at her subjects, the twisted branches of the throne behind her like she commanded not just the Grounders but the entire forest extending in every direction from the edge of the city.

Clarke walked forward, her head held high, each step slow, deliberate, not wanting to trip on the well worn maroon carpet leading to the throne, her path flanked on either side by Ambassadors and other Grounders, knowing dozens of eyes were on her, many unfriendly, wary of the Sky Commander. Her eyes locked on Lexa's, neither of their faces reflecting anything but the self-assured poise of their rank among their people. And yet, as Clarke got closer, it was like she was no longer propelling herself, instead being pulled forward, her feet numb against the ground, the world in her periphery fading to black until the only thing she saw was the movement of Lexa's throat as she swallowed, drinking in the sight of Wanheda as she stopped in front of the dais and knelt in front of The Commander.

Clarke heard the shuffling of clothing and boots as the other Grounders followed her to their knees, seeing Roan, Prince of Azgeda - the man sent to bring her back to civilization, back to Lexa - out of the corner of her eye with his head bowed towards the Throne.

"Azgeda na spek yo daun gon yo Heda."Azgeda will bow before your Commander. Titus' voice moved down from the dais and across the room as he walked towards someone who still stood next to where Prince Roan was kneeling.

Clarke cautioned a look to her side and saw an imposing man, clothed in the heavy furs and leathers of Azgeda, his face scarred into lines and symbols in contrast to Trikru's swirling tattoos.

"Heda-de beda spek em daun gon Azgeda. Osir get in ha osir nou na fis op nou ginteik gon osir baga." The Commander should bow before Ice Nation. We know not to make treaties with our enemies. The man from Azgeda spat his words at Titus.

"Heda nou spek em daun gon non nowe." The Commander bows before no one. Titus' voice was deadly serious, nearly shaking with rage, and Clarke felt a chill down her spine, feeling absolutely certain that there was more to him than his modest robes and monastic lifestyle.

"Stand down, Titus." Lexa's voice remained even, calm, completely unflustered by this derailment of the ceremony. If anything, she sounded slightly weary at having to deal with any of it.

The Azgedan Ambassador gestured towards the throne. "Seintaim em seimbeda sleng kom baga." She even prefers the enemy's language.

"And you will use it, too, in honor of our guest this evening," Lexa said.

"Shut your mouth and kneel." Prince Roan growled as he stood, the other Grounders and Clarke following him to their feet, openly watching the conflict.

"I do not take my orders from you, Roan. And 'guest'?" he continued, turning back towards Lexa. "Wanheda is the leader of our enemies. Why is she still alive? If this is your weakness again, Azgeda will happily step in."

Clarke realized she had been holding her breath and tried to exhale quietly. Weakness. She was the weakness, or rather, Azgeda was insinuating that Lexa's weakness was the reason she was still allowed to breathe. She assumed no one else knew what had happened in The Commander's tent before Mount Weather and Lexa had been very formal in their public (and private) interactions in Polis, but perhaps even the suggestion that Heda lacked the resolve to kill Wanheda would be enough to foment doubt among the clans as to The Commander's strength.

She watched Lexa's face, and as always, it betrayed no emotion. However, she was pointedly not looking at Clarke through any of this exchange.

"Is that why your Queen has moved her army into Trikru and Skaikru territory?" Titus stepped between the Ambassador and Lexa. It was a casual movement, but Clarke felt her suspicions confirmed that his job description might include more than just advising.

"Oh those were just military exercises. Their proximity to Trikru and Polis were a mistake and quickly rectified," the Ambassador waved his hand dismissively.

"The Ice Queen doesn't make mistakes. She makes threats." Titus countered, his hands carefully clasped behind his back.

"Enough." Lexa said, raising her hand slightly, silencing the room. "There's no need to argue about this again. I understand your concerns, Ambassador, and would like to speak with you privately before we continue. I have a message for Queen Nia. Please come join me."

The Ambassador looked smugly towards Roan and sneered at Clarke as he walked to follow Lexa out onto the balcony. Clarke prepared to strain her ears, trying to hear what message Lexa had for Azgeda's Queen.

She saw the Ambassador's lips move as he stepped around Lexa, towards the balcony railing and then before she was even sure what she was seeing, Lexa's hand went to the side of her skirt, not for the knife that was usually strapped to her thigh when she wore pants, but grabbing a handful of the fabric and lifting the skirt slightly before a flash of bare skin as she raised her leg and kicked the Ambassador in the chest, sending him backwards over the rail.

Without watching him fall the hundreds of feet to the ground, Lexa turned and walked back into the room, calm and tranquil, her eyes finding Clarke's before moving her gaze towards Roan who met hers unflinchingly, respectfully. Clarke felt a mixture of fear, pride, and excitement. She has just seen Lexa murder a man for insolence and to send an unequivocal message of strength to Queen Nia and the entire crowd of Grounders gathered before her. She wondered how close she had been to the same fate when Lexa had removed the sack from her head in this very room days earlier, and she had spit in The Commander's face.

"Hail, warriors of the 12 Clans." Lexa's voice boomed throughout the stone room, looking around at the coalition members in front of her.

"Hail, Commander of the Blood," The Grounders chanted in response.

"We welcome Clarke kom Skaikru... Legendary Wanheda, Mountain Slayer to our halls in the spirit of friendship and harmony."

Clarke felt her skin flush with heat, not knowing whether it was the warmth of so many bodies pressed into a room or the fiery gaze of Lexa's eyes as they found hers again.

"If this coalition, the future of all our people, is to stand, then we must look beyond our differences and see that whether from forest, desert, mountains, water or sky, that all kru are welcome under the banner of peace and cooperation. With Wanheda's fealty comes the promise of working towards peace between Skaikru and the 12 Clans. Peace for us all."

"Osir Hogeda." Us All. The sound of The Grounders voices together as one in response to their Commander reverberated in Clarke's chest.

Clarke stood away from the rest of the Grounders and Ambassadors in the throne room as they mingled and gossipped after the ceremony. A large table of food had been set out, but Clarke found that her nerves had muted her appetite, instead opting for a mug of some sort of fermented beverage. It was tart, earthy, and had a slightly sweet burn as it slid down her throat, radiating a slow heat through her belly. She stood on the balcony overlooking Polis, leaning against the doorframe where glass used to be.

"How does this compare to Skaikru ceremonies?"

Clarke turned towards the voice, and even knowing it was Lexa, she never felt fully prepared for her to be in such close proximity.

"A lot more leather," Clarke said, laughing as she looked down at her tight dress, consciously trying to keep her eyes away from Lexa, and failing as they caught a slight glimpse from beneath her lowered lashes. "And the refreshments are better," she continued, lifting her cup in a modest toast.

Lexa smiled, small as always, but it reached her eyes, her hardness softened and warmed slightly by the half-empty cup she held in her hand.

"Everyone will be returning to their rooms soon or down into the city to continue the evening."

Clarke nodded. It was time for her to leave, but neither of those options appealed to her and she was sure Lexa saw the hesitation across her face.

"Get changed into your regular clothes."

"Where are we going?"

"I'll be outside your door shortly," Lexa called over her shoulder as she walked back towards the crowded room, disappearing among her people.

Clarke followed Lexa through the woods, trying her best to stay on the narrow footpath. Lexa, like all of the Grounders she met, could move through the woods more quietly than a deer. She had gotten better at forest-walking in the weeks she had spent alone in the wilderness, but every crunched leaf and snapped twig underfoot made her cringe at her clumsiness.

"Sorry."

"Don't be. We're not hunting."

Clarke remembered being the prey many months ago as Anya had dragged her away from Mt. Weather, her hands bound while they tried to evade recapture. She could feel the cold mud slapped across her face as Anya tried to camouflage them and she smiled at the memory, a single puff of air escaping audibly from her nose.

"What?" Lexa asked, slowing her pace to look at Clarke, her eyes shining in the moonlight.

"Nothing. I was just remembering walking through the woods with Anya when we escaped Mount Weather. She told me I was too loud. And that I stank," Clarke said her voice beginning to tremble. Another death. More blood seeping between her fingers as she tried to push life and her own butchered innocence back into another body before it expired under her palms. But then Clarke pictured Anya alive and she felt the ghost of Anya's calculating grin pass across her own face. "Then she slapped a handful of mud on my face."

Lexa smiled before turning and continuing forward, Clarke now at her side.

"You're quieter than most of your people," Lexa mused before leaning over, closing her eyes and inhaling slowly, deeply. The solemn mask of The Commander was perfectly in place when she drew back, looking at Clarke with complete seriousness before returning her attention ahead of them. "And you smell better than when you arrived in Polis."

Clarke glared at her before laughing and nudging Lexa with her shoulder. She received a sly pull at the corner of Lexa's mouth in return.

It was the strange, awkward dance of getting to know someone beyond pleasantries, beyond the layered walls their titles built around them, remembering that they didn't need to fall back into who they had to be for other people.

Everything in Clarke's mind told her to be cautious, careful; to pay attention and remember the mountain. And her body betrayed her at every opportunity; her core going into freefall as Lexa had leaned in moments before, the instant quickening of her heart sending a flush of heat to her skin. She was a moth fluttering towards Lexa's flame, ignoring the wind as it tried to keep her away, tried to warn her that she would burn.

Clarke's eyes had become accustomed to the sparse, dappled grey light across their path in the forest so when Lexa led them onto a flat, stone outcropping, she nearly had to squint at the silver moonlight reflected off the smooth ground.

They were up on the far side of a small hill just outside the glowing lights of the city. It was dark and peaceful and Clarke had never seen the sky so wide open and inky black as it reached towards the jagged silhouettes of trees miles away. She felt the distant roll of thunder as stormclouds clouds crept across the edge of the sky towards them.

"It's beautiful up here." Clarke said, awestruck. This world could still take her breath away. She hoped it always would, making the parts where she really couldn't breathe more bearable.

"It's one of my favorite places in Polis," Lexa said as she knelt on the ground, shifting flat onto her back. Clarke followed Lexa down onto the hard rock, their heads side by side and and their legs straight out, the twinkling cosmos looking back at them.

"Do you think I was right to kill the Azgeda Ambassador?" Lexa asked after several minutes of silence.

The question caught Clarke off guard.

"Did you want to kill him?"

"In that moment, yes. I had to show I was not weak for letting Wanheda live."

"Did you want to kill me? When I spit in your face?"

"Kill you? No. But if we hadn't been alone, I'm not sure what I would have had to do. Leadership can only endure so long as people are willing to be led."

"Can a Commander lose their position?" Clarke asked, remembering Lexa had talked about reincarnation when they were trapped in the zoo with Pauna.

"In death, of course, yes. But I wanted to give my people other options if they truly felt their Commander was wrongly chosen. So a unanimous vote of the clans will remove them from power. Or a challenge of combat that must end in death. If the spirit of the past Commanders chooses a new leader, then that is the way it must be. Why? How are your leaders chosen?"

"By a vote."

"And if they didn't show the wisdom of a true leader?"

"Depends. If they committed a crime, then they would be floated. Otherwise, there were votes every few years."

"Floated?" Lexa asked, the word familiar but not its meaning in this context.

"Put into the airlock. When it opened, they would be sucked out into space to die. It's what was going to happen to me before they decided to send us down here." Clarke tried to hide the bitterness in her voice, remembering her father tumbling into the void as he was ripped from The Ark in front of her eyes. The cruelty of her people was in some ways worse than the harsh ways of the Grounders. She tried to focus her mind on the present, the past filled with enough tears to drown her on this hilltop.

"The stars looks so different from down here. Earth, I mean," Clarke murmured. "And still also the same."

"Do you miss your home, Clarke?"

"Arkadia?"

"The sky."

Clarke thought to herself for a few moments. Was the beauty of the world worth the difficulty of trying to survive on Earth? Was it any more bearable than the darkness of space? It didn't matter. Not anymore.

"We all would have died up there."

"Everyone dies down here, too. No one escapes death."

No one escapes me, Clarke thought, the familiar roiling of nausea returning for a moment.

"I miss the way it felt to look out the window and see this swirling blue and green and brown marble in front of me, white clouds constantly moving and changing shape and thinking about what trees smelled like and what being really cold or hot felt like and how the ocean would sound in real life. I would draw different places all the time from dreams I had. I probably looked down at this very spot at one point." Clarke paused, taking a moment to breathe in the crisp, piney air.

Lexa was quiet for a long moment before she started to fidget slightly and just as Clarke was about to ask what she was doing, she extended her arm upwards, pointing a finger overhead.

"Do you see that one star up there, just to the left - your left - of those 2 that are close together? It's dimmer than they are."

Clarke followed the tip of Lexa's finger with her eyes, finding the two stars and then, just to the left, there was one just slightly less brilliant than the others.

"That's where your people came from."

The effect was both profound and dizzying. She could never go home to the place she had known her entire life and at that exact same moment, she also felt the certainty settle into place, into her bones and fingertips and organs and heart that she was home. It felt like a betrayal to her stars, to everyone who had died before she reached this hilltop, the extinguished fates of her family and friends shining back at her. They would never know the feeling of Earth beneath their feet.

Warm tears spilled out from the corners of her eyes and slid past her temples, running into her hair. She took a shaky breath, sniffling slightly and swallowing any sobs that threatened to bubble past her throat.

Lexa remained still, silent, allowing Clarke this moment to feel overwhelmed and complete at the same time, the infinite depth of Lexa's comforting strength spilling over both of them, soothing Clarke like the weight of a heavy blanket as the stormclouds continued to spread across the sky, lightning crackling in their dark depths.

The air between them was thick with tension as Lexa and Clarke walked down the empty hallway to Clarke's room, pausing outside the door, their wet boots coming to a squeaky stop on the stone floor.

"Thank you for…" Clarke began, not really sure what she was thanking Lexa for. For showing her Polis the day before? For trying to find a way for their people to co-exist peacefully? For bringing her up to that hilltop and letting her see her home again?

Lexa raised her hand slightly, cutting Clarke off, but her eyes were kind, the warmth in them extending through the space between them and radiating across Clarke's skin.

"You are the one who deserves my thanks, Clarke. I could not forge peace between our people alone. And I hope your people will choose to join my coalition," Lexa said, her voice soft and earnest. "Your heart continues to show strength."

They held each other's gaze for long heartbeats, each trying to push aside the pull of hypotheticals… If they were any other two girls… If they weren't the leaders of their people… If they weren't each standing on opposite sides of a chasm filled with blood and betrayal waiting for the other to leap…

"And my head?" Clarke asked, reaching behind her back to open her door, her eyes never leaving Lexa's.

"Wisdom," Lexa answered, swallowing hard and taking a step backwards, away from the edge of their destruction.

"Reshop, Heda." Goodnight, Commander.

"Goodnight, Ambassador."

Clarke's door clicked shut behind her as Lexa continued down the hallway to her own room, the wind and rain picking up in intensity outside.

Lexa entered her room, empty and dimly lit with only a few candles on a nearby table. She pulled off her damp coat, tossing it on a chair and moved towards the large table covered in maps and books. She leaned forward against it, supporting her weight on outstretched arms, flattening her palms against the cool, smooth wood. Taking deep gulps of air, Lexa tried to dilute the spinning sensation the tense goodbye in the hallway had left in her body, her heart clenching around the emptiness as she felt the intoxication evaporate from her blood.

Lexa closed her eyes, remembering the terror she had felt the moment before she pressed her lips to Clarke's and the divine absolution in Clarke pulling her deeper into the kiss. Each time she allowed herself to relive that moment, it always started from the place where her heart was pounding, where she was afraid and uncertain, knowing how unburdened and full she would feel as her memory unfolded. And if that was the last time she would ever allow herself to feel that yearning for another person, the last time she would ever feel it reciprocated - as she knew it must be - then she would allow herself time to dwell in that memory sometimes. She would allow herself that weakness.

There was no way Clarke would ever look at her like that again; like she would peel away every layer of every scar covering Lexa's spirit and still want to touch the truth beneath.

The rain outside had become a deafening roar and Lexa was so lost in her momentary respite that by the time she felt the air shift next to her, it was too late. Faster than even Lexa could react, strong hands gripped around her shirt as she was pushed backwards against the wall, a forearm pressing so hard against her chest she could feel her ribs bending, her pulse beating underneath the cool edge of the blade at her throat.

"WHERE IS SHE?!" the girl shouted, scarcely above a whisper, her voice hoarse and strained, cracking around the edges, her face barely more than an inch from Lexa's.

Against the darkness of the room, the girl's light hair seemed to glow like silver around her gaunt cheeks, her starved appearance belied the strength and speed she still possessed. Lexa felt the knife against her neck, so precisely placed it would take only the tiniest flick to leave Heda bleeding out on the floor. This was the second time she'd had a blade pressed against her throat in the past week, Lexa thought with wry amusement. She stared back coolly at the eyes in front of her, frenzied and gleaming grey like lighting behind a storm cloud.

"Who?" Lexa asked, her eyebrows knitting together slightly at the mystery of the girl and her quest.

"Clarke! Is she ok?"

Not Wanheda. Not Klark kom Skaikru. This intruder knew Clarke. She was not from one of her 12 Clans, of that Lexa was certain. She recognized nothing about her clothing or any tattoos or other markings, though it was admittedly hard to tell much from the amount of dried blood and grime covering her face.

"Do you mean her harm?" Lexa replied calmly, relying on her experience as Commander to know a lie as it passed from lips to the world outside.

All of the girl's fury and aggression and desperation melted in an instant and the hand holding the knife fell to her side as she moved back a fraction of an inch.

"Never," she breathed.

Lexa held her gaze for another long moment, clenching and unclenching her jaw as she decided what to do. She did not fear her own death, but she knew she could not bear Clarke's. It was a truth that could never leave her lips. She had learned that lesson years ago. And despite everything in her mind telling her to go on the offensive, to attack - to kill - this intruder, in a way she couldn't explain, she knew she wasn't a threat to Clarke. What she was to Clarke, however, Lexa would have to trust Clarke to explain.

"Wait here," Lexa said, moving past the girl and walking out of her room.


	13. Chapter 13

Lexa tried to quell the riot her heart and lungs were beating within her ribs as she knocked on Clarke's door and she was momentarily stunned by the way curiosity melted into a slow smile on Clarke's face when the door opened, as if she'd been expecting her all along.

"Clarke, come with me." Lexa said, reaching for her hand, knowing that the gesture could be interpreted to mean a lot more than just urgency. The ramifications of those emotions would have to wait until later.

They hurried down the hall and into Lexa's room. The girl still leaned against the wall where Lexa had left her.

Clarke's eyes filled with tears, her face twisting with emotion, her body completely still for a few moments before she ran forward, colliding with the girl into a tight hug. Lexa could see Clarke's face buried into her neck, their shoulders rising in tandem, each breathing the other in, their fingertips going white with the ferocity of their embrace.

Lexa didn't realize she had inhaled deeply as she watched them, only becoming aware as the smell of rain and faint copperiness of blood pooled in the back of her mind and the ache in her chest spread like fire through her limbs, her skin awash in the phantom touch of hands that would never hold her body in desperation.

"I thought you were dead," Clarke choked out, her voice breaking against the tears spilling down her cheeks.

"I got away," the girl answered quietly, pulling back, their bodies remaining close, each reluctant to allow more space between them than necessary. Lexa's eyes followed the girl's, roaming over Clarke's face, her fingertips gently touching the new pink skin at her neck. "I'm so sorry, Clarke," the girl whispered as Clarke shook her head and pulled her in for another hug.

Clarke's eyes found Lexa's this time, a thousand apologies and explanations swirling in their glassy blue depths and Lexa nearly trembled with the effort at not demanding the answers to the scene unfolding in her bedroom.

When Clarke and the girl broke apart a second time, she turned towards Lexa, moving forward, her hand extended. Behind her, Lexa could see Clarke's brow furrow as she held her palms in front of her, dark and sticky with blood. Just out of Clarke's reach, the girl's legs wobbled beneath her, and she collapsed forward, slamming into the table before falling onto the ground. In an instant, Clarke and Lexa were kneeling at her side.

Lexa watched as Clarke opened the girl's jacket and lifted her shirt to her prominent ribs, exposing a shocking map of scars; they looked unlike any she'd ever seen, on her warriors' bodies, on her own. They were so faint, so pale against the girl's smooth skin and so numerous, it would take a lifetime for a single body to heal them all. Her eyes were wide as she followed the thin, calm white lines to the seeping, angry red ones, barely held together with bits of metal that would have been in an orderly row, but some had ripped free leaving the edges of the wound jagged like pieces of a puzzle.

"No. No no no no," Clarke muttered over and over. "14, please. Stay awake. Stay with me."

14\. That was the girl's name. Lexa made a mental note to ask her about it if she survived the night. She hadn't ever met people with numerical names before and wondered where they were from. If they were a threat. To her people. To Clarke's.

In a confusing blur of motion, Clarke reached for the blade Lexa kept strapped to her thigh just as 14's hand shot out, wrapping around Clarke's wrist.

"No. It doesn't work anymore. I don't work anymore. They changed something in the code." 14's voice was barely audible against the thrumming rain outside, her hand still holding onto Clarke's wrist.

"I have to try. Please," Clarke begged.

"You don't understand. I tried, Clarke. So many times. I couldn't keep it down. Something is wrong. If it kills me, then I die. I won't take any more from you." 14's eyes shifted to look into Lexa's and she recognized the pleading look of a warrior begging for release.

She was frozen in place, her own eyes looking between the desperation in Clarke's and the resigned fate of the girl's. In any other situation, she would have drawn her knife and slit the girl's throat, sending her back to her ancestors. But even with her limited knowledge of their relationship, she knew this girl's death would be another crushing weight for Clarke to bear, slowly bending and breaking her until she was ground to dust, a living ghost moving through the world.

Still unsure of what exactly they were talking about, Lexa reached down and placed her hand over 14's, gently but firmly removing her fingers from Clarke's wrist.

"Your fight is not over," Lexa said, using the tone of The Commander as she would to any of her own warriors, her eyes never leaving 14's. She hoped the girl would find her own strength in it.

Clarke unsheathed the knife and took a deep breath, gritting her teeth. Before Lexa could stop her, she drew the knife quickly against the underside of her forearm, blood dripping slow and thick onto the stone floor.

Lexa watched in shocked horror as Clarke quickly moved her arm towards 14, lowering it towards her parted lips, a low groan rumbling the girl's throat as Clarke's blood flowed over her tongue.

Clarke's eyes shut tightly in discomfort for a moment before a gasping whimper balancing on the edge of pleasure and pain escaped her lips. The sound of it travelled the small space between them, shooting down Lexa's spine, through every nerve in her body before coming to rest in her core, throbbing in time with the roaring pulse in her ears. It was a sound that belonged in the sweaty dark, with lips pressed to ears and soft flesh and wetness and racing hearts and panting breath. It was not a sound she ever expected to hear again. One that she would hoard greedily in her most sacred places. One that would drive her mad if she let it out into her mind too often.

She could feel her mouth open slightly, unable to speak around the tightness in her throat; and in Clarke's eyes as she turned to face her, dark blue and dilated, Lexa could see her own astonished desire looking back at her.

They sat watching each other, the rain outside slowing into silence, the only marker of time the soft rhythmic sucking sound of 14's mouth in contrast to the uneven tempo of Clarke's breathing as Lexa tried to keep hers under control. She watched as Clarke's brow knit and relaxed, a thin sheen of sweat covering her skin, wondering what it tasted like, wondering what Clarke was thinking and feeling as she bit her lower lip, stifling another small gasp, her gaze never leaving Lexa's.

After an eternity spanning only minutes, 14 released Clarke's arm, using her free hand to reach for the knife next to her. She pressed it into her palm, blood seeping from between her fingers before wrapping her hand around Clarke's wound.

The movement seemed to jar all of them back from their stupors, Lexa moving away from Clarke, feeling embarrassed and ashamed at her foolishness as she busied herself in a drawer, returning with a two strips of cloth which 14 tied around Clarke's arm before attending to her own hand.

A soft blush colored 14's cheeks, still sharp angles and hunger, but she at least looked more human than ghost. Human, Lexa thought. If that's even what she could be called. In her years as Commander and as a novitiate and even as a child, she'd never heard of anything like what she had just witnessed. She knew stories of people eating the flesh from the dead. When the world ended, there was no food and those that could survive the air found sustenance in those that couldn't. She had even heard of recent acts in the far North of Azgeda's territory where the weather was unforgiving and a single bad season could mean a village wouldn't have enough food. But this… Drinking the blood of a living person… She would need to ask Titus if he had any knowledge of these people. This seemed uncomfortably similar to the bloodletting her people had experienced at the hands of The Mountain Men.

"I need to clean up those cuts and stitch them closed." Clarke asked, slowly getting to her feet. "My room is down the hall."

14 nodded, her grey eyes haunted, bewildered as she pushed herself from the ground.

The girl's arm was draped around her shoulders, her weight becoming more heavy with every step as they left the hallway and entered Clarke's room. Her breathing was labored with effort, but Lexa held on, her arm gripping the girl's waist.

"Where should I put her?" she asked, standing in the middle of the room, feeling 14's head nod forward before popping back up, like she was floating, barely remaining above the waves, awake.

"Over on the couch," Clarke answered, grabbing an apple from the bowl of fruit Lexa had instructed her servants to leave for her. She watched as Clarke took a massive bite and smiled to herself as she saw Clarke's eyes close briefly, savoring the sweetness before she disappeared into the bathroom.

Lexa gently lowered 14's body onto the sofa. She could feel the girl tensing under her hands as her wounds stretched painfully. Clarke returned to the room carrying a water basin, some clean pieces of cloth, and a bottle of strong, clear souda.

"Should I send for one of my healers?" Lexa asked, standing and moving some of the lit candles closer to the sofa.

"No. I have what I need here," Clarke answered, arranging her supplies on a low table. "Help me with her clothes?"

Lexa tried not to think too much about what exactly was happening on Clarke's couch as they carefully stripped 14 of her clothing until she was only wearing her underwear and bra. She watched Clarke's fingers tracing lightly over 14's skin, using a damp rag to gently wipe away the dried blood and dirt, the girl's chest rising and falling with slow, even breaths as she teetered on the edge of consciousness.

14's jaw set and she inhaled sharply as Clarke removed the remaining staples from the deep cuts around her ribs, setting them on the table with a soft plinking sound. She was quiet again, possibly even asleep, her head facing into the cushions as Clarke began passing the needle through her skin, pulling the edges together, blood seeping through the spaces between the thread.

Lexa watched Clarke's practiced hands work, not sure what to say - if she should say anything - and was grateful when Clarke broke the silence.

"I know I owe you answers," Clarke began, looking up at Lexa as she tied off one row of stitches before moving her attention to another one of the gaping cuts.

"Clarke-"

"No. Let me finish. I didn't tell you about her because I thought she was dead. And the last time we saw each other, she made me promise not to tell anyone about her or her people." Clarke swallowed hard, waiting for her voice to steady. "Her story before I met her isn't mine to tell. But when I found her, she had been hanged, shot, and I don't know what else. I thought she was going to die."

"So you gave her your blood?" Lexa asked.

"No. I didn't know about that until the last time I saw her," Clarke said, her hand moving to the side of her neck, barely touching the shiny, smooth new skin before resuming her work. "But the first morning, she brought back a rabbit. There wasn't any blood. I guess I didn't think anything of it. I was grateful at the time. The sight of blood… I was trying to become... Everything you'd taught me before The Mountain. About not caring. About closing myself off. I knew I couldn't stop feeling everything, but I tried to find a way to deal with it." Clarke looked up at Lexa and Lexa knew just as she was, Clarke was reliving the confrontation in her tent, each knowing that Lexa wasn't immune to feelings either as she'd confessed hers for Clarke that day. "After I killed all those people, I hated everything I was and everything I'd become. So I thought that maybe if I could at least try to become… harder, stronger… that it wouldn't hurt so much. Maybe the nightmares would go away."

Lexa felt her expression soften, wondering what her face must have been conveying before. She hoped Clarke could see the regret in her eyes. She meant it when she said she never wanted to turn Clarke into "this" - into her. Into a person who pushed all feelings aside for her people. Clarke was too good for that, had too much to offer, to distance herself off from everyone. Clarke was born for leadership, this was true, but she hadn't been raised like Lexa had. She'd had a childhood and friends and the love of her parents. She hadn't been ripped from her family the moment her people had seen her blood spill black as night as she'd tripped and fallen while playing with the other children in her village.

Her way wouldn't - couldn't - be Clarke's way.

Lexa was pulled from her thoughts as Clarke continued.

"We found a bunker when the winter rains started and stayed there. She knew about Skaikru and your people. The alliance and Mount Weather. She asked if I wanted to kill you. And in that moment, I did, so she started to train me."

As Clarke tied off the last stitch and began unfastening the bandage around her own arm, Lexa gently pulled a blanket across 14's exposed skin and allowed herself to study the body on the couch. Although she was thin with hunger, Lexa could see the sheathing of muscle from her back as it wrapped around her ribs and hips, the rounded caps of strong shoulders and an planes of shadows and highlights along her defined legs. She had no doubt that this girl was capable of much more violence than holding knives to surprised throats.

"She trained you well," Lexa said, fighting against allowing the melancholy to seep into her voice; against imagining the weeks 14 had been able to spend in Clarke's company.

"Did she?" Clarke asked, unwrapping the bandage around her own arm.

"She did," Lexa answered, remembering the watery blue of Clarke's eyes as her resolve had faltered. "But I'm glad you changed your mind."

Her mouth quirked up in a small smile, and Clarke answered with a small grin of her own.

"Shit," Clarke muttered. "I'm going to need to close this up. Hand me that bottle?"

Lexa passed her the bottle of clear alcohol and felt herself holding her breath as Clarke poured some over the needle, letting it splash into her wound, hissing at the sting. She watched Clarke move the needle towards her arm, her hand trembling from blood loss, from adrenaline.

Without even thinking, Lexa's hand was wrapped around Clarke's, taking the needle and thread from her. She dipped her hands into the basin now filled with alcohol and looked into Clarke's surprised face. She was a warrior, after all, and every warrior knew how to stitch a small cut closed.

"How did Roan find you?" Lexa asked as she pushed the needle through Clarke's warm skin. She wanted to keep her talking, both for her own selfish reasons and to distract Clarke from the pain.

"We were out walking once the rains stopped. Her people found us," Clarke paused, clearly lost in a painful memory, her eyes distant and sad. "They were going to take us both back to her people. To experiment on us. She killed someone she cared about to save me."

"And your neck?"

"To make them think I was dead," Clarke answered, wincing slightly as Lexa tugged the largest gap of skin together. "I didn't know what she did to me. It all happened so fast. There was so much blood. Mine. The guards she killed. I thought I was going to die. When I woke up, I was on Roan's horse."

"You must have been worried about her," Lexa said, looking at 14.

Clarke nodded. "I was, but I've also gotten used to people being in my life one minute and gone the next. We had spent so much time together and to just have her gone and not know what happened... It was just hard not to be able to talk about it with anyone. She's..."

"Special."

Lexa didn't realize she had spoken until she heard her own whispered voice in the air and the emotion it brought to Clarke's eyes only confirmed what she knew in her gut. That Clarke and 14 meant something to each other beyond mentor and student, beyond companionship out of necessity and survival. The world was falling away beneath her and her only tether was the thin piece of string in her hand as she tied the last of Clarke's stitches.

Lexa looked at her for a long moment, chewing on her bottom lip.

Every moment of silence between them felt like an unspoken confession and only added to the constant blurring and redrawing the lines between them. And so she would have to protect herself in order to protect Clarke. The line would have to hold.

"I'm glad you found each other again," she finally said.

"I'm sorry. I-"

"Don't be. Don't ever apologize for what you have to do, Clarke," Lexa said with the smallest shake of her head. "Not to me."

She watched as Clarke's eyebrows knit together, confused at her tone and sudden shift in demeanor. Lexa hated herself for where she knew she must steer the conversation, knowing that she would have to press forward, accept that what she might want wasn't in her fate. It never was and never would be and it was foolish of her to think that she could be anything but Heda to anyone.

"But you've apologized to me," Clarke said.

"I apologized for hurting you, not for what I did for my people at Mount Weather," Lexa responded tersely. "And even that was weakness on my part."

"So, what? You apologized because I had feelings about you betraying me? Why do you think I couldn't hurt you just the same?" Clarke asked, her voice small and scared.

That was the problem, thought Lexa. Despite telling herself that she was in control, she had allowed Clarke to fasten herself so deeply within herself that if Lexa didn't tear her out now, she would grow like ivy until every vein and muscle fiber was wrapped in Clarke.

"Because I'd never let you," Lexa answered before getting to her feet.

Her voice was so controlled. So steady. Clarke felt her stomach clench as she looked into Lexa's eyes, glassy with tears that would never spill over, the mask of The Commander covering the rest of her features like stone. The growing closeness between them over the last few days vanished, snuffed out like the candles on the table as if in a vacuum when Lexa closed the door behind her, taking all of the oxygen in the room with her. It was like the breath had been pulled from her lungs. The airlock doors opening as she was yanked outside the boundary line between where Heda ended and Lexa began.

She was adrift in the dark, her stars hidden by stormclouds, numbly walking towards her bed. The acrid scent of smoke hung heavy in the room.

Through the din of the returned rain, 14 lay listening to Clarke's muffled grief, sure that if her hearing were keener, The Commander's room would sound like a mirrored echo of Clarke's despair.


	14. Chapter 14

Chit don ai odon?

What have I done?

Her face was sore and puffy, eyes scratchy and dry as she rubbed the sleep from them with the heels of her palms. She didn't remember falling asleep, but she must have somewhere between the crying and the dawn.

Pain .

It was a living thing inside of her. No longer sleeping, waiting; it had stirred, opening it's jaws wide to swallow her whole. It breathed as she breathed, compressing into a small, incomprehensibly heavy weight inside her chest as her lungs filled with air and expanding to fill every space underneath her skin as she exhaled.

Lexa dressed in the weak morning light, still dazed and distracted by lack of sleep and excess of remorse. It wasn't until she pulled her lightweight leather armor over her shirt instead of her usual shoulder guard and cape that she realized where her subconscious was leading her.

She could sense The Pits before it came into view. The smell of sweat and leather intermingled with the piney air as she left the forest path behind her and she could taste the swirls of dust kicked up by the early morning sparring sessions. As soon as her warriors saw her, the happy shouts began, banging their weapons on shields and earth like war drums welcoming her home.

Lexa walked along the row of wood and metal weapons, holding out a gloved hand and letting her long fingers drag across their handles and dulled edges, stopping finally at a pair of two short swords. She took one in each hand, rotating her wrists, elbows, and shoulders, warming up her joints while watching pairs of warriors attack and defend, grunts of defeat and the barking laughter of victory on the air. She still felt stiff and exhausted as she walked towards the fighting area, but when is anyone ever truly ready for battle?

The sun was nearly overhead by the time Lexa stepped away from training, placing her swords back on the rack before gently wiping the blood from her nose with the back of her hand, black like ink stains. She had done well today, fighting until her muscles trembled, her breath coming in gasps, eyes red and stinging from sweat.

Unlike the kings and emperors of the past, her warriors attacked her without hesitation. It wasn't their job to make her look better than she was, it was her job to earn their respect by being better. Sometimes a well-placed blow landed, sometimes she allowed them to hit her, the pain reminding her she's alive, reminding her that there are those who aren't, reminding her that she can't let herself drown in it. She can't allow herself to wallow in the shallows of her grief, sinking into the mud and mire before the next strike comes.

The ache in her heart had been dulled by the pain across her skin. She was grateful. Pain on the inside breeds weakness. Pain on the outside builds strength. As she drank from her waterskin, she felt an odd prickling in the back of her mind, like she was being watched, like how it felt when the spirits of the previous Commanders were trying to guide her. She turned to see a figure retreating into the trees, pewter-colored hair turning to charcoal, melting into the forest shadows.

It was the sound of paper that woke her. The soft slide of a page's edge against its neighbors drew her back towards the world of the living, and with consciousness came the slow tsunami of memories from the night before. She squeezed her eyes closed, curling her body into a ball, hoping she would just get smaller and smaller until she disappeared. But she didn't vanish and neither did the burning, twisting feeling in her stomach. Slowly, Clarke opened her eyes, feeling the air touch the dampness of her lashes. The room was dark and cool, the curtains drawn against the daylight and cast the walls in a soft blue hue. Clarke pulled back the covers and padded over to the sofa where 14 sat leaning against the armrest, reading. She was dressed, her feet extended across the couch, her boots placed neatly on the floor, and Clarke wondered where 14 had gone while she'd slept.

"How are you feeling?" 14 asked, closing her book and looking at Clarke as she sank into the worn cushion at the other end of the couch. Her grey eyes were soft and warm. She nudged a plate of food across the low table and Clarke couldn't help but smile, feeling the emotion squeezing her throat, overwhelmed at the familiarity of sitting with 14. There was an uncompromising finality to seeing someone pulled out of an airlock into the darkness of space. But on Earth, death and life seemed to walk along the same path; people moving from living to dead as they parted ways, and back to living again if their paths happened to cross again. Clarke didn't think she would ever get used to it.

"Tired." Clarke stifled a yawn and stretched, pulling her arm back slightly as her stitches strained. She held her arm out to 14's open hands and closed her eyes as gentle fingers pressed around her wound.

"You're healing well," 14 said, releasing Clarke's arm.

"And you?"

14 stood, pulling her shirt up over her shoulders so that it hung around her neck like a scarf. Clarke wasn't modest by any means, but the nonchalance 14 felt about her own body always reminded her of the reality of 14's existence, constantly required to expose herself, to hold still, to bleed. Clarke scooted to the edge of the sofa and examined the deep cuts she had stitched together, the redness and heat of infection gone, the subcutaneous layers already fusing well. She traced her fingertips over a particularly ugly and new scar, still a deep, dark pink, near the front of 14's shoulder, just outside of her bra strap, below her clavicle.

"Had to dig out a bullet on my way here," 14 answered Clarke's silent question, pulling her arms back through her sleeves and sitting back down on the couch.

"What did they do to you? How did you get away? How did you know I would be here?" The questions came out in a rushed jumble and for a moment, Clarke was worried she was pressing too hard, that she should let 14 talk at her own pace, that she should just mind her own business, but then she saw the slow smile of amusement spread across 14's lips and she felt herself relax. Everything was fine, or at least, it would be. Between them, anyway.

"They tranqued me outside and I think at least once more in the vehicle. I remember walking up on the operating table. Then nothing. There were stitches here," 14 said, turning her head to reveal a vertical scar just at the edge of her hair line on the back of her neck. "But I don't know what they did."

Clarke pressed her fingers against the smooth skin.

"I can't feel anything, though it looks like it healed much faster than the ones on your ribs. No infection."

14 looked puzzled, her eyebrows knitting together before she shrugged and continued. "Everything after was just a blur." 14's voice was hard, her jaw clenching a few times before she bit her lower lip. "I feel… Different. Everyone's blood smells wrong. Tastes wrong. I just throw it up."

"And mine?" Clarke asked.

"That's what I don't understand. After they took me, yours stayed with me longer than it should have. It was the only reason I was able to keep running," 14 said. Clarke watched her face, sure she could see a hundred scenarios flicker through 14's mind and across her eyes like the dappled sunlight dancing along the forest floor. "I need to go to Mount Weather. I think there's a machine there that I might be able to use to get some answers."

"Me too," Clarke said, sighing as her stomach lurched at the thought of having to go back to the place where she condemned hundreds of innocent people to death; at having to go back to her people – her mother, Bellamy, Raven - and the questions she was sure they would have for her. "Not about the machine, obviously. But I have to go to Mount Weather soon."

"For good?"

"I didn't think so, but after last night, I don't know anymore. I agreed to be the Ambassador for Skaikru so I was supposed to go back to my mom and Kane to talk to them about having us join the coalition," Clarke said, remembering the tense ceremony. "Were you able to find out anything more about what Ice Nation wanted at Mount Weather?"

"Not really, no. At least nothing that makes sense yet. But I would like to speak to The Commander at some point."

"Of course. I'm sure she has questions for you, too," Clarke said, feeling her voice start to tremble at the thought of Lexa. She looked down, absently worrying one of the loose pieces of thread from her sutures with her thumb, remembering how warm and careful Lexa's hands had been as she had tugged the sides of her skin together and how cold she had felt in her core the moment the door clicked shut behind her.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Clarke met 14's eyes and felt her own water. From the moment they had met, 14 had been incomprehensibly kind and gentle, despite the violence and cruelty of her upbringing. She had never asked anything of Clarke. And here she was again, offering her support and comfort where Clarke felt she deserved none of it. She knew she had a lot more explaining to do, but before she could answer, there was a knock at the door.

"Heda requests both of you in the throne room in one hour," a gruff voice boomed loudly from the hallway.

14 quirked an eyebrow at her and Clarke took in a deep breath, pushing her emotions away from her tear ducts and stood, walking towards the bathroom to make herself ready.

"How do you know she isn't a threat?" Titus' voice was low and serious.

"Because Clarke said she is not." Lexa tried to hide her exhaustion, sitting rigidly on the throne, looking down at Clarke and 14 as they stood at the base of the dais, the room empty except for the four of them. Clarke looked as weary as Lexa felt, her endless afternoon meetings where she had to sit straight and attentive had sapped her of the extra energy sparring had given her. 14, on the other hand, stood tall and alert. She was dressed in a simple tunic and slim pants, her bare arms clasped in front of her, the bruises from the night before already faded. She'd taken shears to her hair, the longest top pieces barely brushing her jawline and she'd shorn the sides down close to her scalp. Lexa realized she was studying her, or possibly it was just an overcorrection in trying not to look at Clarke.

She sniffed, worried that her nose might start bleeding again and was sure she saw 14's nostrils flare slightly in response.

"And you would trust Wanheda with your life?"

Titus' job was to question her decisions, not in a way that was disrespectful, but in a way that forced her to examine all sides of an issue. However, sometimes even his duty was wearisome.

She hadn't wanted to summon Clarke and 14, but Titus had insisted, the safety his Commander was his primary concern. And now as she sat looking down at Clarke, she was suddenly not sure of how to answer that question because a lot can change in a person's heart and mind in the time it takes for the moon to sink and the sun to rise. But Clarke's eyes didn't show the hatred she had seen there before; if anything, she just looked tired. And sad. So sad it would make Lexa's heart ache if she let it.

"Yes." The finality of her tone instructed Titus to move on in his line of questions. She looked at Clarke and could swear she saw a flicker of warmth pass across her face, but maybe she was imagining what she wanted to see. 14 was a much harder read, her features impassive, a warrior who could withstand unrelenting torture was unfazed by verbal inquisition.

"How will we explain her presence in Polis? And so near to you, Heda? She is more... conspicuous than Clarke."

Lexa thought for a moment, watching as 14 turned to look at Clarke, drawing her hand unconsciously through her hair, the long pieces pulled up and away from the close cropped sides revealing tattoos above her ear. As Lexa's dazed mind processed the symbols, suddenly recognizing the largest one, Titus was already flying down the stairs towards her, his robes billowing behind him.

"How did you come to be in possession of our most sacred symbol?!" Titus shouted at 14, grabbing her roughly around the collar and forcing her backwards into one of the columns around the perimeter of the room as Clarke and Lexa raced to join him.

Without a word, 14 broke Titus' grip around her, pinning his arm and throwing him to the ground before stepping quickly away, placing herself between Titus and Clarke, her eyes burning with fight as they found Lexa's again. Lexa tried to hide her shock; Titus was not only her advisor but he was the last line of defense against an attack on a Commander, highly skilled in close combat and he had been dispatched in less than a second. But Lexa couldn't find it in herself to be worried. If anything, she felt Titus deserved this embarrassment for his unprovoked rudeness.

Lexa shook her head imperceptibly and watched 14's posture visibly relax with the assurance there would be no more violence, her hand briefly moving to her ribs in discomfort before clasping them again in front of her.

"You have the answer to your first question, Titus."

"Heda?" Titus asked, getting to his feet and straightening his robes.

"14 will serve as personal guard to Clarke." Lexa looked at Clarke for confirmation that the solution she presented was acceptable and the slight smile playing at the corner of Clarke's mouth told Lexa that they were both in agreement regarding Titus' behavior.

"And the sacred symbol?"

"You don't have to answer him," Clarke murmured to 14. Lexa felt like she should be angry, like she should feel affronted by Clarke claiming authority in her own throne room, but she didn't feel angry. She felt… peaceful. She knew this would give Titus fuel for another anti-Clarke lecture later, but right now, she felt soothed by Clarke's voice, as tired as they both obviously were.

And she was right: Lexa wouldn't compel 14 to answer beyond what she felt comfortable in revealing. She, admittedly, wasn't as fervent a follower of their religion as Titus, but she remembered being awestruck when he'd taken her on her ascension day to the dank basement room full of artifacts of their faith. She recalled touching the smooth metal shell of the large capsule with POLIS lettered on the side, the mural of The First Commander and the sacred symbol – an outline of two circles side by side, so close that their edges overlapped - large and brilliant above her on the wall, matching the tattoo she had just received on the back of her neck after taking the Flame.

Lexa didn't actually remember taking the Flame, but she can still recall the moment she felt the Commanders sharing her mind with her and the way she felt her faith shift into something more tangible as she became part of her people's history. She was curious about the source of their shared marking, but in a way she couldn't quite explain, it was something between them that Titus could never understand, so she would respect 14's privacy for now.

"Your Fleimkepa," 14 began, her fingertips gently touching the tattoo above her ear, "was right in recognizing the symbol."

Her grey eyes were locked on Lexa as she spoke. It wasn't confrontational, exactly, but it made Lexa feel uneasy and curious at the same time, the odd tickling passing across her mind's eye like a breeze through the forest; a gust of wind rustling the leaves before becoming completely still again, her focus pulled back into the present. Just within the edges of her sight, Lexa saw Titus stiffen. Neither she nor Titus had used his official title around Clarke so it was likely that 14's people had a deeper knowledge of Polis than expected.

"But for us, it isn't a symbol of faith but more like a… brand… that one would wear or place on livestock. I think that is the more appropriate analogy in my case, anyway," 14 said.

"So you are property?" Lexa asked, surprised by the revelation. "Will your masters come looking for you?" She let her attention fall on Clarke for a moment, her face showing that she at least knew some of what 14 was revealing. She looked unwell, her pale skin almost translucent and her nearly mute presence this afternoon was an obvious indicator that something wasn't right. Lexa would end the meeting soon so Clarke could rest.

"No, not anymore, I don't think. I expect they've learned trying to keep me isn't in their best interests," 14 said, a small, wry smile spread slowly across her lips. It was eerily beautiful and the undercurrent of her words was soaked with blood.

"This still doesn't answer-" Titus said.

"I am satisfied for now, Titus," Lexa cut him off, dismissing him with a small flick of her wrist. He paused, nodding curtly and casting a withering glance at at Clarke and 14 before walking towards the door, closing it loudly behind him.

Lexa stepped towards Clarke, noticing that as she moved forward, 14 moved away. Not from her, but from Clarke. There was an unmistakable protectiveness in her body language around Clarke and Lexa recognized it even as she had to contain her own desire to reach out towards Clarke, to put her hand on her, to feel that she was okay and alive. She settled for simply being in closer proximity than their official positions dictated, her heart fluttering against her ribs when Clarke didn't step away, instead looking back at her with the same confused hurt as the night before.

"Are you sure I can't send for one of my healers?" Lexa asked.

Clarke swallowed, blinking away the extra moisture in her eyes. "No. I'm fine. I just need to lie down. I'll feel better tomorrow."

Lexa gave one quick nod and watched Clarke and 14 walk out slowly out of the room.

She couldn't sleep. Despite not getting rest the night before and exhausting her mind and body during the day, she didn't feel tired. No, she felt tired. She felt drained of all energy and yet her mind wouldn't quiet enough for her to fall asleep. She sat in her room, a half-empty glass clutched in her hand. It was still early, the golden light of sunset having only just melted into the dusky blues of twilight, the moon still on its ascent through the dark heavens. But she knew sleep would not come anytime soon. Not tonight. Not most nights. But especially not tonight.

Lexa could divide her life into two halves: the half where she drifted into dreams moments after her head touched her pillow, and the half after she woke to see Costia's severed head on the pillow next to her, lifeless eyes staring at her as she opened hers that morning. Every night since then has held no guarantee of sleep. The nauseating despair she felt in the months following Costia's death had finally dissipated into more mundane concerns keeping her awake. But it seemed that in pushing Clarke away from her heart, the creeping anguish returned, ensuring she would not rest tonight.

Many months ago, before Skaikru had crashed down into her world, she had been on campaign with her army, marching for weeks between villages, her warriors spending the nights that didn't end in bloodshed in local taverns. She and Gustus, her trusted friend and protector, had been watching the soldiers drink and flirt with the village locals, becoming rowdy and boisterous as the night wore on. Lexa remembered allowing her eyes to covertly follow one of the young women of the village as she passed by their table, feeling her pulse quicken as warm brown eyes had met hers, friendly and inviting, but Lexa hadn't been as inconspicuous as she'd thought when Gustus spoke.

"You are too many nights alone, Heda," Gustus said, his voice gently teasing but the sparkle in his eyes shone with a slight sadness, knowing Lexa's heart was still raw and damaged, despite his Commander's steely persona. "And one night doesn't have to mean forever."

"I am forever for my people, Gustus," she said, taking another large swallow from her mug. To be Commander is to be alone . Titus' voice spoke softly in her mind, repeating the phrase he'd often used throughout her novitiate training. It had been the only thing he'd said to her as she had sobbed in her room, his hand firm and reassuring on her shoulder and Costia's head still resting on her pillow, staining it with death. The "alone" he spoke of during her training and the "alone" she had become that morning were all-encompassing to her being. Everything would begin and end with her.

"Sha, Heda, but I have served several Commanders before you. It is a great responsibility and the ecstasy of bloodshed doesn't relieve all tensions. Even Titus knows this. Do you not ever want…?"

Lexa sighed, remembering Costia; remembering her curly hair streaming behind her, bouncing like leaves on a river of wind as they'd run through the forest as youths and remembering it spread out across her pillow, her eyes heavy and full of adoration the first night they'd spent together in Lexa's new bed as Heda after her ascension. She could remember the excitement she had felt the next morning when she woke and the feeling in her fingertips as she'd traced the beautiful scar along Costia's cheek until those soft hazel eyes had opened, filling the room in early morning with warmth.

She thought about what Gustus had said, and while the girl who had walked past their table was very pretty and Lexa had briefly allowed her imagination to taste the softness of her lips, her neck, to feel the warm skin under her palms, she was jerked immediately back into the loud tavern, musky with the scent of souda and sweat, her stomach burning with guilt. Guilt and duty were intertwined and she thought that in truth, she would never want or allow herself to want ever again. It was both a relief and a burden.

"What I want is for these skirmishes to end so that we can all go home," she said, a bitter edge to her voice as she stood from the table, downing the last of her strong drink and walking towards the door. She had taken one last glance around the room, seeing Gustus move from their table to talk to the busty bartender he'd been casually eyeing all night. Her eyes then found the pretty girl from before and she watched as the girl's expression turned from excited flirtation to slight shock, as if she'd been slapped, when her eyes met the Commander's cool, disinterested gaze.

Kissing Clarke in her tent had been a mistake. It had allowed hope to spark within her heart – dangerous for both of them – and that hope had been like a flickering flame, all but extinguished until the gentle breath from Clarke's parted lips – the soft conversation over days in Polis - had brought it back to life, coaxing that little spark into a roaring blaze inside Lexa's chest. The grey-eyed girl's arrival was a sobering reminder that she and Clarke were not equals. Clarke was free to love and free to give herself to whomever she wanted and 14 was who Clarke wanted.

Lexa brought the glass to her lips and tried to focus her mind on the burning liquid as it slid down her throat and into her belly, to feel how her insides felt like fire for a few seconds after. It was a conscious effort at distraction, she knew, keeping her eyes trained on the shadows of curtains and candles dancing across the floor of her darkened room. It wasn't a strong enough distraction, though. Untenable, anyway. She couldn't remember the last time she drank to excess and she couldn't keep doing it night after night to erase each day. Perhaps Gustus was right, Lexa thought. Perhaps she could allow herself to want. At least for a night. At least to try and find some peace among the smoldering ashes of her core.

Before she could second guess herself, she stood, trading her empty glass for the entire bottle of burning reddish brown liquid. The hallway was empty as it always was at night. When she did sleep, the slightest noise – the shuffling of booted feet, the soft clank of a sword against stone or the groaning of leather armor – would wake her and so she ordered her guards to patrol the hallways further away, closer to the stairwell and elevator doors.

She kept her eyes forward as she moved closer to Clarke's room, the path beyond it would lead her down the tower, down to her city and hopefully down the body of a beautiful distraction. When she was no more than a few paces away, the click of a door lock pulled her from her buzzed haze and she nearly walked into 14.

All semblance of her previous plan evaporated like steam from water thrown onto a fire as she looked into the peculiar eyes of the assassin in front of her.

"Good evening, Commander," 14 said, inclining her head slightly, her eyes jumping quickly down to the bottle in Lexa's hand and then to her reddened cheeks before returning Lexa's gaze.

Lexa wondered where 14 was going at such a late hour, and without Clarke.

"Is everything alright? Does Clarke need anything?" Keeping her voice controlled took more effort than normal, but she was fairly certain that she hadn't seemed overly eager at the mention of Clarke. Then her mind betrayed her and allowed a flash of what might be beyond the closed door – Clarke sated and asleep in bed, the sheets twisted around her limbs, sweat drying on her flushed skin as she breathed steadily into dreams, the last twitches of ecstasy melting into the night. She swallowed hard, forcing her attention back to the hallway.

"Clarke is fine, Commander. I couldn't sleep," 14 answered. "Seems we have that in common."

"I guess we do," Lexa said, studying the reflections of candle light in 14's grey eyes.

"Is everything alright with you, Commander?" 14 asked, genuine concern in her voice. The strange sensation she often felt around the girl mumbled through her mind, dulled and muddy from the alcohol. Lexa wondered if 14 felt the same unearned familiarity around her as she did.

And just as she'd uncharacteristically drank more than her usual polite sip this evening and just as she'd impulsively decided to finally follow Gustus' advice and find fleeting comfort in the arms of a stranger, she surprised herself again as she listened to her voice answering 14's question.

"I don't know," Lexa said, handing 14 the bottle. She turned to walk back towards her room, 14 following silently behind her.


	15. Chapter 15

"So, Commander, how close did Clarke come to killing you?"

Whatever Lexa had been expecting as a start to their conversation, this wasn't it. After following her into the room, 14 had sunk into an oversized chair and Lexa had walked around the perimeter, re-lighting some of the candles so their meeting would seem less depressing, less clandestine. The room now glowed golden orange; 14's hair and eyes transformed and otherworldly as they reflected the light.

Lexa studied her from her own seat. She looked younger, more innocent, sitting cross-legged in the worn leather chair. The way 14 normally carried herself, stiff and aloof, cast aside like armor at the end of the day and Lexa wondered if she ever looked as untainted by blood and death as this; if ever the pressure of her own duties didn't bend and bow her figure under an invisible load. Or if even in sleep, the weight of the world pushed her slightly deeper into the mattress.

"A drop of blood farther than you did." Lexa touched fingertips to her neck where Clarke's blade had punctured her skin. "Were you disappointed to find me alive?"

"No," 14 said, shaking her head slowly. "But I didn't train Clarke so that she would kill you. I trained her because she needed to feel like she could."

Lexa watched 14 raise the glass to her lips for the first time, and felt the corner of her mouth quirk up slightly at 14's failed attempt to hide her discomfort as the liquid burned down her throat followed by a small, sharp exhale.

"Wanheda is no stranger to death, to killing," Lexa said, though knowing how Clarke detested her title, even the word felt uncomfortable and bitter on her tongue.

"But she'll never choose it. Not if there's another way," 14 said. Her second sip came with less of a grimace. "You made her believe there could be another way."

Lexa was glad for the numbness from the drink. She felt the pain of those words, but like the dulled edges of the weapons from this morning, it wasn't enough to break the skin. She could feel the soreness settling in, the bruises darkening the flesh across her thighs, her back. The ache made it easier to keep her voice steady. "You don't think she could have changed? Truly wanted to kill me?"

"She might have believed her own lie," 14 shrugged. "But we are what we are, Commander. The lies we tell ourselves don't change us. They're just another layer to peel away by the ones we let under our skin." Her attention wandered around the room, eyes resting briefly on the shelves overflowing with books.

Lexa was back on the hillside, her army surrounding the Skaikru camp, torches speckled against the night like fireflies and Clarke was standing in front of her, blue eyes full of tears, begging for the life of the brown haired boy called Finn awaiting his death, their vengeance. We are what we are. She had said those exact same words to Clarke after Clarke had asked her for mercy, asked her to show the Sky People that they were not "savages." The word had stung unexpectedly. She was Heda, Commander of The Blood, Uniter of the 12 Clans. Their savagery is what kept them alive. And yet hearing it on Clarke's lips like an abomination made it feel like a slap across her cheek. It was also the moment Lexa remembered feeling the first stirrings in her heart for the girl with the golden hair. Clarke had plunged her hidden blade deep into the heart of the boy, robbing Lexa and her people of their retribution for the lives he had taken. She remembered feeling her desire morph into shame and guilt.

"And what are you?" Lexa's words came out with more hostility than she had intended, but if 14 picked up on her tone, she didn't show it. Perhaps the drink had rounded her edges. Perhaps 14 was just as practiced at maintaining her exterior calm as she was and Lexa still needed to be alert around her. Perhaps she would ignore all of that and take another sip of her drink.

"I was whatever they asked me to be," 14 said. She leaned forward to refill their glasses. Lexa knew the effects of combat on her soldier's bodies, and even she had an impressive collection of scars across her skin from countless fights. Apart from the slight discomfort 14 displayed in the throne room after tossing a man larger than herself to the ground, she didn't seem to be in any pain.

14's eyes followed Lexa's to her own body. She set her glass down, shifting in her seat and pulling up her shirt to reveal the skin just below her right ribs. What Lexa saw almost made her choke, the strong liquor stinging her throat and she coughed once before leaning in for a closer look.

The deep, seeping cuts from the night before - cuts that if they killed a man twice her size wouldn't have been surprising - were faded from bright, hot red and now nearly matched the soft, tanned skin surrounding the stitches. These were the wounds of someone who had healed for more than a week and had been lucky to stave off infection. 14 sat back in her seat, her glass in one hand and pulling her shirt down with the other.

"How?" Lexa asked, both imagining how such ability would benefit her soldiers and also the cold, raw fear of facing an army of people like 14.

"There are tiny pieces of technology in every part of me, mostly in my blood," 14 said, pinching her fingers together so that barely a strand of hair could pass between them. "They make bleeding stop quickly, my muscle and skin and bone grow together faster. In the time it would take a normal person to recover from a broken hand, I could have knocked on the gates of death a dozen times and be back to the living before they had opened. What you saw last night was, I guess for lack of a better term… recharging them?"

"Jus drein, jus daun." Lexa mumbled, mostly to herself, but she didn't miss the bitter smile before it faded from 14's lips. "How is it that our people share a common philosophy?"

"That part, I don't know. But I can tell you what I do know about my beginnings," 14 said, shifting her weight and leaning on the arm of the chair. Lexa felt herself mirroring 14's movements, also adjusting so that she was more comfortable and settled, her muscles moving less stiffly than she remembered earlier in the day. Another positive for her half-empty cup. "The ancestors of your people were the ones who survived when the bombs dropped and destroyed the world. They lived because some of them had certain traits - like the way that your eyes are green or your hair is brown - that made them immune to the radiation and they passed those traits down to their children who also lived. But for me, my 'people' and my 'ancestors' are two different groups. My people came from scientists in a large underground city who were working in secret before the bombs and continued working after. My ancestors were the test subjects. Generation after generation raised for experiments and killed when it was time to answer a new set of questions."

"What kind of tests? To what end?"

"Tests like yours, I imagine." 14 took a sip from her glass and held it up in front of her, watching the candlelight filter through the swirling amber liquid. "The kind that hurt. The kind that bleed. The kind that make your chest pound and lungs burn until you don't think you can breathe anymore and that your heart will either beat out of your chest or stop altogether, but you keep going because they haven't told you that you can stop yet." 14 shook her head slightly. "But they weren't trying to make us stronger, mould us into greatness. Not like you. They wanted to see how strong they had made us. This time."

14 told the story of her upbringing without emotion, her voice flat and factual. Lexa wondered if any part of her wished she'd had a more "normal" life - whatever "normal" was in this world, anyway - or if invincibility was a fair enough trade. She imagined young children, their small fists bloodied and raw from fight, cuts on their faces, purple and swollen. Tiny ribs expanded against tiny lungs, heaving breath, watched by faceless men using their skin and bones as whetstones.

Which would she have chosen if given the option? No Heda before her had survived a decade past their conclave, most just a few short years. But perhaps that was the price of having her spirit carried on to the next Commander. Her mind immortal, her body a gossamer thread of smoke floating towards the heavens upon her imminent death.

"Why did they try to kill you, then?" Lexa asked. "Clarke said you were tortured."

Lexa watched a dozen answers pass behind 14's eyes, her lips opening and closing around letters she couldn't breathe into words. She was hesitant when she finally spoke. "I thought I knew. I thought I was being punished. An example. But then they killed the rest of us. All of the ones like me and their handlers. So 'to what end' - I don't know. I don't know what they were hoping to learn with my generation."

"Why bother punishing you? Making an example of you if they were just going to kill everyone else?"

"I have some ideas, but nothing really solid, yet. I hope to find more answers at Mount Weather."

"What kinds of ideas?" Lexa was interested now, choosing to ignore the implicit with Clarke at the mention of Mount Weather and instead concentrating on the sensation of curiosity. It was unexpected. By the end of the day, she was usually too tired to even want to engage in conversation with anyone. The hours spent in meetings were an exhaustive dance of ferreting out the truth, the angle of attack, the shadowed agenda, from whoever gained audience with Heda. And on nights that didn't end with her barely able to even undress herself before bed, she would read quietly from one of the dozens of books on her shelves, re-reading familiar passages when she felt like company, spending time with her favorite characters.

"Can we talk about something else?" 14 asked. She looked pained, her eyebrows knitting together like she was uncertain of Lexa's answer, like she wasn't used to asking for things.

"Of course."

They spoke for a long while. The conversation meandered naturally through their lives, the liquid in their bellies slowly dissolving the paper walls around their practiced demeanors. Thoughtful silences were filled with the sound of melted wax hissing as they slid past the candle flames, dripping and drying in long strands. The quietness contrasted with sudden barks of laughter as only people who have swum in destruction can find humor in death.

It wasn't the same, of course; there was no way 14 could really understand her position the way Clarke did. She was alone, the last of her kind. But Lexa found relief in the way her blood didn't quicken, didn't threaten to flow out of her pores with each pulsing beat and towards the only other person she had felt that she could speak with unguarded, unburdened by their positions. 14 didn't want anything from her. She had no agenda. The secrets she guarded weren't to manipulate their conversation so for tonight, it was enough to sit and talk as equals.

"Can I ask you something, Commander?"

Lexa nodded, taking a large swallow from her cup, draining it. She leaned forward and set it on the table between them. Tonight was a night for honesty.

"Where were you going, before?"

Lexa kept her eyes on the empty glass in front of her, her vision becoming unfocused as she let her mind's eye trace over the curves and shadows of the girl she never met in the tavern she never visited. She was quiet for a long time, lost in the delusion that she could have pretended to be anyone else; pretended to let go, to yield under a stranger's lips, fingers, teeth, and breath. Pretended that her body would have obeyed her mind's deception.

She was quiet for so long that by the time she looked up, 14's attention had wandered again back towards the bookshelves along the walls. For a moment, she felt remorse at her rudeness, at not answering 14's question, and relief at not being pressed for an answer.

"You may borrow whatever you wish."

Lexa was vaguely aware of 14 rising and moving towards the bookshelves. She could hear books being pulled and replaced, pages turning and she was just beginning to drift away, back into her own thoughts when 14 slid a piece of paper across the table in front of her.

"Who is this?" 14 asked.

Lexa lowered her gaze, knowing who she was going to see even before her eyes were able to focus on the drawing: a girl's face, her wild hair spreading, overflowing the edges of the paper, eyes bright and mischievous, a faint smile playing at the edges of her lips and a long, beautiful scar extending like a falling tear down one cheek.

It was like the entire world had come to a standstill, the sudden feeling of being stopped mid-motion carried enough momentum to pull a single word from Lexa's lips.

"Costia."

"Who is she?"

"She was mine," Lexa answered, unable to tear her eyes from the paper. There was a time when she would stare at that picture for hours, imagining her fingers touching every part of Costia's face, her body, the way she sounded when she laughed and when she murmured in her sleep. Now Lexa couldn't remember when she had hidden away the drawing in a book, carefully interred between the pages.

"What happened to her?"

"She was taken from me by Ice Nation. They sent me her head."

"Why?" 14's asked, a hint of urgency hiding in her tone.

"Because I was hers. They thought she knew my secrets." Lexa felt a hot tear roll slowly down her cheek, felt it splatter onto her bare wrist.

"I'm sorry, Commander." Lexa finally looked up from the paper and into 14's eyes. They were so soft, and earnest, it made Lexa feel like every emotion she had ever pushed down and away was coming to the surface again. It was hard to breathe. It was too much to feel. She inhaled one shaky breath after another until she no longer felt like her body would reject the air, forcing it out into sobs.

"Can I ask you something?" Lexa's tongue felt heavy in her mouth, uncoordinated and undulating like a slug. Her eyes were heavy as she reached out towards her glass, tipping it back and feeling the few drops that had collected in the bottom slide limply into her mouth.

"You've asked me many things tonight, Commander." Lexa looked up into 14's face and was glad to see a small smile playing across her lips as she took the glass from Lexa's hand and walked across the room towards a pitcher resting on a table.

"Why were you watching me this morning at The Pits?"

"I wanted to see if you really were as good as they said." 14 filled the glass with water and drained it herself before filling it again and walking back towards the couch.

"And was I?"

"Better. But you have a habit of dropping your lead guard before you counter." She placed the glass of water on the table, next to Lexa's empty hand. "Goodnight, Lexa."

Lexa felt 14's hand on her shoulder. She wasn't used to people touching her outside of her official duties. It felt solid, secure, like being under a heavy blanket, and she felt herself raising her own hand to rest it on top of 14's in silent thanks, but time under souda moved differently, and she only felt the warm skin of her own shoulder beneath her palm, the room silent and empty.

Clarke raked her fingers through the damp, coarse sand. It made her skin itch and she wanted to pry the grit from beneath her fingernails, but she couldn't stop digging, couldn't stop until she felt the stiff rebound of cold flesh. Her movements became more frantic; sand flying out from the pit in the ground until she could clearly see the lifeless body below. Olive skin, now pale and sallow, peeked out from a dirty shroud. The intense green of her eyes had clouded over, vacant, wide and staring at nothing, grains of sand stuck to her eyelashes like glitter. Clarke struggled to pull the body out of the pit and into her arms. It was heavy, so heavy, limbs dangling and threatening to throw off her balance completely as she trudged through the uneven earth towards the cave in the distance.

Once inside, the sun was barely a pinprick of gold at the mouth of the cave, like a flashlight in the distance, its power draining quickly. She crouched next to the body, running her palms across the skin, trying to press warmth and life back into the organs and bones, but as she moved her hands, the skin beneath tore open like thin paper, muscle and sinew shining wetly in the dim, fading light.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Clarke kept chanting, kept trying to pull the pieces of skin back together and just tearing it more. She moved her hand to the sternum and felt the strong thump of a heart, but the body's eyes remained unblinking, unseeing, pupils fixed on the abyss. Sobs racked Clarke's body and tears dripped onto the torn flesh, rolling off like rain.

She was shouting now, the cave pitch black and only able to feel the clammy, icy skin under her fingers, her words reverberating around her. It was so loud she couldn't tell which apology was her own and which was an echo, her voice growing hoarser, her body more bent, curling in on itself until she was lying on her side, the smooth stone beneath turned soft and pliant.

"Shhhhhhh."

Warm breath spread against the side of her neck, humid and heavy, sweet with the scent of alcohol. It wrapped around her, pushing away the cold, damp air from her dreams. She felt a hot palm press against her back and she opened her eyes, still whispering her pleas for forgiveness. Clarke didn't know if she was awake or still dreaming. There was no light anywhere. Her vision looked the same whether her eyes were opened or closed, but the hand on her back was real. It had to be. She felt the surface sink behind her, the hand sliding along her ribs, coming to rest between her breasts, against her beating heart.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please. I'm sorry." Clarke continued to murmur, not sure if she was speaking aloud in Polis or inside the dark cave of her dreams; her words barely able to release themselves from her lips as she sniffled and tasted saltwater, heard her tears absorb into the empty shroud beneath her face.

"Shhhhhhh."

She drifted. The slow, even press of the body behind her like a heavy heartbeat, every angle of hers fitting into the angles behind her. Back to front. Hips to hips. The arm around her, hand in hers, pulled, tightening gently, drawing her closer. Clarke shifted her own weight, rocking backwards, slowly, supple flesh absorbing her in contrast to the cool stone beneath. She was sure she heard the tiniest whimper hidden in the cloud of the next breath against her neck.

"Please. I'm sorry. Please. Please." Her cries for forgiveness, now a whisper, pleading in selfishness. The next roll of her hips started behind her, she was sure, pushing her forward like a wave, and she began pulling the hand at her breast down her chest and over her stomach, down, down until she gasped, her own hand trembling against the backs of sure fingers.

Even if she'd wanted to - been able to - see in the total blackness, it didn't matter. It didn't matter whose lips were brushing the shell of her ear, whose hips were canting her own forward. It was better that she didn't know; her subconscious giving her blissful reprieve from her complicated heart, allowing her to just feel, to not be in pain anymore. Each thrust of fingers deep, stretching, then emptiness, jolts of electricity as they traveled up and over the straining bundle of nerves before beginning their slide back down, back in. It was so slow. Millimeters passing in minutes, every sensation magnified in the jealous dark.

Clarke's breathing became more labored, hitched in her chest as she held her breath for long stretches, concentrating on the feeling building between her legs. It rippled outward, like liquid, every inch of pain and anguish like a sponge, absorbing, morphing into the singular goal of release. The breath along her neck remained steady, the fingers at her core responding to her own hand's pressure.

"Please." She begged into the darkness, to the heartbeat at her back, to the fingertips soaked and sliding through her. She wanted to reach behind her, to touch the warm skin pressed against hers, to thread her fingers through soft hair but her arm wouldn't obey; frozen, paralyzed, it stayed between her legs. All she could do was rock her hips harder, pulling ever tighter against the quickening fingers. Her eyes were wet, clamped shut as she began to strain, curl her body inward, trembling, everything around her stopping, silent, except for the hot, even breath against her neck, sending shivers across her cool skin.

"Clarke."

The sound came from all around her, a whisper seeping from the stone like water, telling her to let go, to surrender in this moment where no one could see, where no one knew the absolution she needed to feel. And it was enough. Clarke shuddered against her own pain, everything replaced with unbearable heat, pleasure, so strong she could feel it in her teeth, light exploding behind her eyelids where there was none shining on her, her mouth open, throat screaming silence into the void.


End file.
